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THE DIARY OF
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

A. C. Bknson
1899

A. H. Fry

[Fronlis

THE DIARY

oi-

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER
BENSON

EDITED BY

PERCY LUBBOCK

sP y ^'-

LONDON

HUTCHINSON & CO, {PUBLISHERS), LTD,

PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS

PAGE

NTRODUCTION

I I

I. 1897-1899

II. I 900-1 903

III. 1904 .

IV. 1905 .

lOI

V. 1906 .

132

VI. 1907 .

. ^55

VII. 1908-1909

179

VIII. 1910 .

. 184

IX. 191 I .

202

X. 1912 .

228

XI. 1913 .

. 246

XII. 1914 .

. 265

XIII. 1915-1917

277

XIV. 1918-1925

. 296

INDEX

317

ILLUSTRATIONS

A. C. Benson (1899) ..... Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

A. C. Benson, E. F. Benson, R. H, Benson (1903) 72

A. C. Benson, H. O. Sturgis, P. Lubbock: (1906) 144

The Old Lodge, AL-^gdalene College . . 184

A. C. Benson, F. R. Salter, G. Winterbotham (191 1) 206

A. C. Benson (191 i) . . . . . 246

A. C. Benson (1923) ..... 300

The Study, The Old Lodge (1925) . . . 314

THE DIARY OF
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

INTRODUCTION

Arthur Benson began to keep a regular diary in 1897,
and thenceforward to the end of his life the familiar grey
or purple notebook lay always on his table, close to his
hand; and at any free moment of his busy day he would
seize it, write in it with incredible swiftness, and bring it
up to date with a dozen headlong pages. By the end of
a month or less the notebook v/ould be filled from cover
to cover and a new one opened. Year by year the
volumes accumulated; they were stored away as they
were finished in a great black wooden box, made for the
purpose, in which they were arranged and packed with
the ingenious neatness that he loved. The box, as he
left it, contains no fewer than a hundred and eighty of
these little books, and I calculate roughly that the whole
work runs in length to something like four million words
— forty substantial volumes, say, if it were printed in
full. It means that over and above everything else, all
the variety of his professional work, all his literary
industry, all his social and active occupations, all the
groaning mass of his daily correspondence — over and
above the whole of this, in the chinks and crevices of a
life that seemed already crammed to overflowing, he found
time and space for another big book or two every year.
Those who remember the amount and the intensity
and the mixture of his activities may well ask in
wonder from whence his diary, the mere bulk of it as it

THE DIARY OF

lies in its box, can possibly have sprung; but there it is,
tangible and ponderous yield of the spare moments of a
man who rarely, scantily, unwillingly, as it seemed, ever
had so much as a moment to spare.

After reading it through from beginning to end, from
its casual opening on the first day of the Eton summer
holidays, nine-and-twenty years ago, to the last lines of
all, illegibly scrawled in bed at Magdalene within a few
days of his death, one may pause and turn and look back
upon the long picture unrolled, trying to seize the whole
effect of it and to answer a few of the many questions it
provokes. Neither is easy for one who reads this diary
with a memory perpetually responding to the old days
recorded, the people named, the places described — for
one who sees every page through a cloud of associa-
tions, who completes every hint and fills every gap
with the understanding of long remembrance. How
would the enormous record strike a stranger.'' — it is
the first question, and a difficult one for this editor to
answer. Is it a piece of self-portraiture, and would it
give a stranger a full and fair impression of the man who
thus talked to himself, day by day, with such freedom and
volubility.? Is it to be regarded as a chronicle of scenes
and events, the mirror of an academic and a literary life,
interesting to a stranger for the vivid and vigorous detail
of the panorama? Perhaps it is both; but in both
aspects I can believe that the amplifying interpreting
memory of an old friend brings much to it that is not
actually in the pages; and especially if it is taken as the
portrait of Arthur Benson, how he was and how he
appeared during all those years, I conclude that there is
not a little to be added to it, and perhaps something to be
taken away, before it can be offered as the true truth to
those who did not know him. He wrote very freely in
his diar)', and even very recklessly, but in a particular
strain, not with all his moods — and not quite uncon-
sciously either, so that the revelation of himself is not
always to be accepted without demur. Enough, I place
the diary, clearing it as well as I can of the thousand
things I read into it, beside the image of the writer as he

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

lives in a memory that is full of him; and now, as best
may be, I note where his own pages fail to give a portrait
that satisfies a friend.

It has to be remembered always that Arthur Benson
talking to himself and Arthur Benson talking to another
were two very different people, so different in many ways
that the link between them might otten be difficult to
discern. What do we think of first, if we think of a walk
and talk with him, or of a dinner-table where he was
present, or of an evening session in his crowded little
red-lit study at Magdalene.'' We think of his geniality,
his brimming interest and enjoyment, his rich humour
and his irresistible laughter. The hour returns with a
sense of liberal ease, in which we all talked and laughed
and argued at our best; for he made us all feel better
pleased with ourselves, readier and livelier with our jests
and anecdotes and ideas than at any other time; and
though it was he who controlled the hour and directed it
as he liked, there was no air or tone of dictation, we were
all equal and companionable together. Nothing went
wrong, he never arrived cross or moody or fretful; he
brought life into the circle, he freshened it into convivi-
ality. He created enjoyment in the hour, but first he
enjoyed it himself — and so obviously, so expansively,
that the very sight of him was inspiriting. Those walks
or rides in the Cambridgeshire lanes, those evenings of
relaxation round the fire, they were always to be counted
on; provocative argument, insatiable curiosity, fantastic
illustration never failed; and laughter was perpetually in
the air, keeping the occasion in a lively stir, in a swing
and glow of festivity.

None of us, I suppose, can recall a more delightful
talker — or a causeur^ I would rather say, if the other word
sounds too loud and formal. He talked zi-ilh you, he
insisted on knowing and hearing and being told — being

1.3

THE DIARY OF

told the whole of your story, the last detail of the news
you could bring him of your adventures. " I mustn't
miss a word of this," he exclaimed with relish as he
started you off; and he plied you with his questions, he
refused to be satisfied till he was crying out in wonder
or dismay or derision at your climax. It might not be
much of an adventure really, an excursion, a country
visit; but he had to know exactly what had happened,
what you had seen, the full amusement and horror of it;
for it was usually horror that it provoked, luxuriantly
picturesque, to think that you should have dared and
done such a feat as to stay, for example, in a strange
house with a party of people for a day and a night.
Think what his own sufferings would have been in such
a predicament! He described them with gust and
minuteness — how the gay company would have para-
lysed him, how he would have sat heavily staring and
despairing, unable to speak or think, his bones dissolving,
his nose as sharp as a pen. And so it went on, the dismal
picture was elaborated; and you might venture to put
another picture beside it, the manner of his real
appearance in a sociable gathering, centre and leader
of whatever vivacity and charm it might possess; but
he would have none of it, he denied and protested,
using the best of his wit, his ingenuity, his extrava-
gance of drollery, to describe his unfitness for society
in general.

It meant, of course, that he preferred to meet people
upon his own terms, not upon theirs; he liked the
interesting occasions better than the boring; but this
simple explanation he could not admit. And certainly
it was not trouble that he spared himself in company —
in any company. He courted the acquaintance, it is the
right phrase, of anyone who fell in his way — the great
man whom he sat by at dinner, or the shy youth whom
he invited to lunch, or the servant who attended to his
needs; he took equal pains with them all, he brought his
best to bear upon all alike to establish free and friendly
communication. I have often watched him labouring in
this manner at thankless tasks, devoting his pleasant

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

attention to mere dullness and platitude, refusing to be
defeated. Nothing discouraged him but positive in-
civility— pretentious manners, rude answers, overbearing
discourse; and then indeed he submitted with the worst
grace possible, he fumed in an uneasy silence of which
his friends could immediately recognise the signals —
and not always in silence either, if the right opening
came for the trenchant word which he could plant, no
one better, in the place where it was deserved. He hated
to be silenced, he more fiercely hated to be bored than
anyone we have known; but by well-meaning affability
he was never bored, and it took a very intemperate and
tyrannical talker to silence him. On the whole we see
him intent upon his colloquy, rather shamelessly holding
his neighbour away from the general talk, delighting him
with low-voiced entertainment to which we all wish to
listen when the general talk wears thin; or if he must
attend to his duty, if he is the presiding host, then the
right light vein that fits the occasion, in which all can
share and shine, is never to seek and never fails. Most
genial of hosts and most sociable of companions — so he
seemed and so he was, for the hour.

But it was not for him an hour of rest. It was always
hard to believe, yet it was true, that he was much at the
mercy of his politeness, constrained to make himself
agreeable by a sort of doom of courtesy which he could
not escape. It was hard to believe him when he said so,
for how could such liberal ways be simulated by a sense
of duty.'' — he must have enjoyed himself as he seemed to
enjoy. And indeed he did, he had many faculties for
enjoyment in his mind — minute and inquisitive observa-
tion, a lively taste, not for the humours only, but for the
very dust and draff of homely gossip. The low conversa-
tion in the corner, so absorbing as it seemed, might
easily prove to be an earnest exchange of the precise

THE DIARY OF

details of — what shall we say? — the ownership of all the
villas on the Huntingdon Road, all the sources of the
income of a provincial grammar-school, the family history
of an archdeacon; he acquired and retained with satis-
faction a vast mass of information upon topics as
brightening as these. But true it was, nevertheless, that
his politeness laid hold of him in company and gave him
no rest; he could never take his ease and wait on events
and allow himself to be approached and solicited; he
was bound to do all the work. And naturally it was
fatiguing, and when the hour was over he subsided with
relief upon his solitude — not to rest, for he could not rest,
but to work as he pleased, without the need of pleasing.
Why not take the obligation more lightly, as he was well
entitled to take it? He could not say why, he only knew
that when he met people he had to win their favour, to
conciliate and attach them as fast as he might. The
shadow of critical displeasure must be repelled at all
cost.

So he said, so he asserted with some of the exaggera-
tion that amused him. But there was this much of
truth in it, that his sensibility to his surroundings, the
present company, the scene, the moment, was like a
nerve continually exposed. He was never unconscious
of the moment or of anything it brought; and if it brought
what to another might be the mildest and most transient
of discomfort, his nerve outrageously felt it. He had to
take care of the minutes as they passed ; for he was stung,
he was positively murdered by the trifle of boredom in
which other people acquiesced indifferently. There was
no fraction of the day in which he could relapse, like
other people, into careless unperceptive ease. The room
of which he had to learn every detail, the face of which
every lineament must be traced, the landscape full of
trees and roads and houses to be noted and accounted
for, they all kept him at a strain of occupation ; and his
only relief was in a shift from one task to another, a
change of activity that was punctual, and no wonder,
from hour to hour. This fierce exposure to the day long
assault of impressions explained a great deal in the

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

routine of his life, which so often appeared to be at once
too rigid and too feverish, too tightly bound in habits
that might not be broken, too perilously crammed with
engagements, bits of business of all kinds, beyond any-
thing that could in reason be required of him. He used
to envy the friend whom he saw sitting indolent and
placid, staring out of window, wasting time. He could
never refresh himself in that way; and least of all could
he allow his effort to relax, his mind to wander idly,
when the passing minutes were shared by a companion.
Then he was doubly employed; he had to save the
occasion twice over, for himself and for that other;
and the other must be dull or perverse indeed if the
double success was not achieved.

It was usually achieved on the spot, and a casual
acquaintance had become a friendship on a comfortable
footing. So it appeared to both of them, and with
justice; and in the kindly words and sentiments with
which they parted there was only one possibility of mis-
conception, and that perhaps by both of them easily
overlooked. And after all it was not very serious. If
the new friend felt that he had been admitted into deeper
intimacy than was really the fact, at any rate he had had
his agreeable hour, he was not to be pitied; and if Arthur
Benson was occasionally distraught to find that more was
expected where he had given so much, he too might
console and defend himself without much difficulty.
He learned, I judge, by experience that his pleasant power
of making people swiftly his friends could bring its own
embarrassment now and then — bring claims upon his
time, attention, sympathy, for which he was not prepared;
but when all was said and he had made his complaint,
it was no great price to pay for an enviable talent. Of
all his gifts as a schoolmaster among boys, as a don
among undergraduates, it was probably the first and
best; and I dare say it was not less valuable when he was
a schoolmaster among his colleagues and a don among
dons. In these capacities he will presently be seen at
closer quarters; but meanwhile let a glimpse be taken of
him in any congenial circle, at any time — and there he

B 17

THE DIARY OF

is all gaiety and volubility and good-humour, cordially
disposed, comfortable in the world. We have the look of
him by heart— sitting low in his chair, ruddy and bulky
and rough-haired, twitching his cigarette with restless
fingers, throwing back his head with his enjoyable
infectious laugh; and this is a sight to be recalled
again and again and lingered over, now that he is gone,
and now that we are faced by a portrait of him, in his
diary, wherein his true likeness is at many a point missed
entirely. Introspective as he was often believed to be,
absorbed in contemplation of his own peculiarities, in
fact he never knew himself well enough to record
himself aright. Here is one thing, the geniality of
his presence, which he failed to see as others always

saw It.

On the other hand he was quite aware how jealously
he guarded his independence. "Don't make your
house in my mind "—that was a phrase he used to quote
from Aristophanes, and one could see how instinctively
he put out his hands and warded off the danger of en-
croachment. Nobody must invade his mind, force his
inclination, " hustle " him— it was a frequent word of
his, he ruffled and bristled at the suggestion. He
clutched his liberty; he never surrendered a jot of it —
and not only that, but if ever on any pretext it was
threatened, in love or strife, he lost all scruple in protect-
ing himself, he thought of nothing but to rout and
disable the intruder. Why should people desire to press
in upon him, when he was always so ready to meet them
in the doorway and talk agreeably on the threshold ? It
was not as though he was stiff with them out there, or
distant in his greeting; far from it indeed — he talked
with the utmost freedom, he would frankly answer any
question they liked to ask. Less than anybody was he
disposed to make a secret of his privacy; it was for all who
cared to hear him tell about it. But that must suffice —

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

and why should it not ? He thought it might suffice,
as in the lives of others it was all he dreamed ot
demanding for himself. Anyhow he could not admit
the kind of interference which asks for more than
can be told upon the threshold; and if more was
insisted on, if a place and a lodging was required in
the seclusion of his mind — then there was likely to
be trouble.

In all this perhaps he did not differ by much from
other men-^-or differed chiefly on a single point, an
important one, of which more must be said in a moment.
He was like enough to other men, at all events, for many
old and sound and imperturbable friendships to centre
in him. The friends of his youth were his friends till he
died, or they — for several of the nearest, among them
the closest of all, died before him. These had been
with him since his schooldays; some were of his own
generation, not a few of an older, and his tie with them
all was of a kind that changes and chances do not touch.
It is there to prove that when he talks, as he does, about the
coldness of his heart and the slackness of his affections,
the words are not to be taken as seriously as they
sound. He went his own way through life and did his
own work, and when his path fell in with that of his old
friends he welcomed the meeting and made the most of
it, and when it happened again nothing had been lost
in absence and more was added; and if this is a poor
account of friendship it may be asked whether most
men have a better to produce — or whether they need
wish for a better. As for his chilly and unfeeling
disposition, I may call it famous among his friends, so
much they heard of it; but this could hardly be the right
explanation of their reproach, always one and the same
— which amounted to the complaint that they could
never see enough of him. The man he thought
himself is not the man who is sought as eagerly and
lost as regretfully as Arthur Benson.

These were the friends who understood him and
whom he understood — a notable company, going and
coming in the pages of this book. They knew him too

THE DIARY OF

well to be affected by that idiosyncrasy to which I have
alluded — not his care for his independence and not his
love of his own way and work, but something more
unusual and in the house of friendship more hazardous.
It was his prompt command of words and his perennial
inclination to use them — it was that. Nobody ever
perplexed his relations in the world more inveterately
by too much talk about them, too much explanation
and justification, above all by too much brilliant and
incisive correspondence. He could not leave a disturbed
situation alone, to straighten itself out in a little peace
and silence; and at any rate in his later years it took a
small thing to start a disturbance. It was begun,
perhaps, by somebody's luckless desire to beset him too
closely, to engage him with over-urgent calls upon his
intimacy; or it was begun, on the contrary, by some-
body's graceless and wilful neglect of his just demands:
anyhow he struck out at once, his phrases flew; and in a
trice the little embarrassment was defined and hardened,
and there was an alliance, new or old, that had some-
how gone askew, and he could not tell why. " I have
written him " (or more often " her," perhaps) " a long
and careful letter"; when he said this it was always
ominous; and though the ensuing flurry of replies and
counter-replies, qualifying and clarifying and eternally
justifying, might be exhilarating for a time, he forgot
too easily that his pen was very sharp. Well, it all
arose from a genuine wish to avoid ambiguity, and
it ended in his protest, yet again, that he was incapable
of a fine and warm and generous devotion. He
could only envy those who were more bountifully
endowed.

I think once more that with all his self-scrutiny he
was wrong. Not coldness it was, but an old strict use
of precaution, a rule of safety, which he recognised with
dislike, though with the best of wills he could never
infringe it. He responded very quickly in fondness and
warmth so long as the rule was observed and his own
terms were inviolate. And then there was something
else, his masterfulness, that told for more than he was

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

aware of in his dealings with his neighbours. Did
he indeed suppose himself to be a gentle shrinking
apologetic soul, readily daunted, inapt for controversy?
Not quite, no doubt, though he loved to persuade you
that he did; but of the true fact he seemed to be really
unaware, that he controlled and commanded like an
autocrat. His later and younger friends, to whom his
kindness and his sympathy were beyond estimation, had
nevertheless to learn that his authority was easily
affronted. He did not, in point of fact, consider the
independence of others as carefully as he defended his
own; and the day of collision, if it came, found him
combative, unsparing, not in the least inclined to
placable forbearance. He laid about him lustily, he
discharged his indignation with memorable effect. He
gave, first and last, a good deal of pain, by no means
without intention at the moment; but after all the
intention was loose and light in his mind when the shaft
had flown, and it surprised him to learn that the barb
had stuck where it hit. He certainly did like power,
and he used it without shame — and yet ingenuously, too,
deceiving nobody but himself, and with a sense of the
fun of it all that was young and exuberant to the end.
The stirring adventure of discovering and using one's
force — he plunged into it again and again, gay and fresh
as a beginner.

The shadow of a strange and difficult illness fell on
him several times in his life, changing everything while
it lasted, and more than once it lasted for years. The
green world that he loved was turned to dust, and he
suffered in bewilderment and misery. This we know;
but we remember too, and it should be clearly noted,
that when the shadow lifted it passed completely; not a
trace of it was left to trouble the good times. He
enjoyed the pleasure of the day again exactly as before, or
only with the heightened excitement of release; he came

THE DIARY OF

out undamaged, undimmed, and even — what was odder,
though agreeable, too — uninstructed, having learnt noth-
ing and forgotten nothing in distress. These terrors
were deep and dire; they were far the most searching
experience of his life, and he was hardly grown a
man when he knew them first; yet they counted as
nothing at all when they were gone. And this, which
could only be matter for thankfulness, is an illustration
of his singular power to evade the penalties of time —
and doubtless more than its penalties, some of its rewards
as well. So long as he was happy in mind it seemed
that time had no effect on him; and I am not referring
to his physical robustness, remarkable as that was too.
His life in his work, in his many and varied occupations,
was broader and fuller and busier year by year;
but his life within was a life that never grew old,
never was shaped or stiffened by maturity, never came
of age.

The youthfulness of the temper of his mind was
doubly revealed — in the freshness of his curiosity and
his perception, in the lightness and slightness of his
wayward judgment. What were his opinions? He had
them in plenty, they sprang up at a touch, on all sides,
lively and vigorous, alert to the least word of challenge.
But what were his settled opinions, his convictions,
the faith that he held in solitude? — for that other
proliferation had a fortuitous air, it was the flowering of
the moment. As for his principles, his general ideas,
though he certainly had no will to conceal them, there
was a difficulty in discovering what remained when the
rich tangle of contention and contradiction was cleared
away. Not very much remained, perhaps; for the truth
was that his mind escaped as undisciplined, as unschooled,
as the breeze that blows in the wildwood. He always
loved freedom and he always hated tyranny; was that not
enough consistency for a working faith? It was all that
was left him, at any rate; and perhaps the rule he attacked
was not the most unreasonable, perhaps the freedom he
ensued was not very closely defined; but one thing was
sure — that his argument, supple and easy and abundant,

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

was much more amusing than any of his opponent's.
When it came to words the rest of us were nowhere; for
while we were painfully seeking and measuring our
phrases, his own were cracking about our ears with an
advantage that he was prompt to use. Exasperating in
dispute he often was, so ready, so elusive, so unfair; but
he was never dull.

He gave himself away with both hands, cheerful and
careless. He fell upon the time-honoured riddles of
life and death, art and philosophy, faith and morals, as
irresponsibly as though no one had given them a thought
before him; new every morning, fresh for debate, was
the perplexity of the freedom of the will, the meaning
of evil, the way of all flesh. How can a man, with these
fascinating mysteries ever before him, exhaust his wonder
and leave speculation to the pundits .f* He could not, for
one; to him they remained as enticing as ever they have
seemed to curious candid youth. And as with the
daring of youth he delivered his thought on these high
matters, so with unaging quickness of eye and humour
he watched the world about him, near at hand — a world
of a well-marked horizon, not large, but it was more
than enough to gratify his appetite for amusing detail.
He was pleased with everything he saw; he did not ask
for wonders and rarities, he preferred the shelter of the
life he had made for himself, and the sober landscape of
his choice; but nothing escaped him within it, and from
the romance of its beauty to the jest of its absurdity he
loved it all. And not only on the delights, he thrived
too on the impatient irritations and vexations of the day;
they did their part to sharpen the zest with which, in the
good unshadowed times, he devoured the hour. No
doubt he lived and thought and worked too fast — too
fast for safety, as it certainly was for the best of care and
finish. But if he paid heavily for the years of enjoyment,
at least he enjoyed them. The spirit of his vitality was
none the maturer for age or pain, but it was unquenched
by either.

THE DIARY OF

With all this, with his happiness and his prosperity,
with his pleasure in his gifts, in his work, in his
congenial lot, there was something amiss with his ease,
some disharmony even in the good times; he was never,
it seemed, entirely and securely at hom^e with himself.
It was not that his crowded days so flagrantly belied the
gospel of meditative tranquillity which he loved to
preach; that was a contradiction too open and notorious
to be troublesome. But there was a deeper misgiving,
a more insidious; and I would not say that in health and
strength it vexed him much, but it had its effect — I come
round to it now — its unmistakable effect on the tone of
his talk to himself, his soliloquy in his diary. He had
never made sure, never been forced to make sure, of the
ground he stood on; he had never discovered himself,
worked out his own salvation. And so his solitude,
guarded as it was from the intrusion of man or woman,
wanted the last and inmost confidence; and more and
more, as the years went on, this failure of assurance,
beneath so much that was vigorously assured, made
itself felt. He well knew what he had missed, he
lamented it; but he also knew, or he thought he knew,
that the ways by which most men attain their sufliciency
were closed to him. They were closed by those old
habits of prudence which he deplored; but then those
habits again, it was useless to say they should be broken.
If he had been the man to break them he would not have
been the man to form them; and he left the melancholy
truth at that, with a sigh — not a very deep or doleful
sigh, when all is said.

But it is to this malease, haunting his seclusion, that
I trace a strain of inhospitality, disrelish, perversity- —
whatever it is to be called — which often appears in his
expatiation to himself, and which might suggest as often
that he was ungracious to a world where he moved in
fact so happily, so genially. The whole day was stirring
and stimulating, it all passed in a round of absorbing

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

tasks and mirthful meetings; and then, when he was
alone with his note-book — not always, far from it, but
not seldom either — the warmth went out of his thought,
some chill of discontent, of disparagement passed into it;
and the day was portrayed in a light too sharp and unkind
for the pleasant fact. It is a kind of amends that he
makes to himself for the diligence of his friendliness in
society; and it means that he cannot sufficiently rest upon
himself, upon his own belief in himself, for liberal and
composed reflection. The warning is needless,very likely,
in respect of the pages that follow, so small a fraction
as they must be of the whole vast number in the diary;
but still it is as well to put it plainly — Arthur Benson was
the last man in the world of whom it could be said that
he lived with a grievance. He lived, on the contrary,
with a warm and conscious satisfaction in the many good
things of his life, and he had an exceptional power of
imparting his pleasure to his companions. He utterly
misrepresents himself if he persuades his reader to think
otherwise.

For indeed his addiction to musing and ruminating
on paper, pensively regarding himself, gazing into the
mirror of his temperament — this was something that
seemed to be dropped into a character where it did not
in the least belong. He was a masterful practical man,
of strong preferences and determined will; he was a man
of swift imagination and temper, acutely sensitive to
passing impressions, quick to perceive and to forget; an
impatient lover of beauty, an inspiriting companion, an
imperious friend. He was an artist of many talents,
blessed or afl^icted with a facility which he had not the
weight to stem; he worked voraciously, with the lightness
of hand of a craftsman, but with no tenacity, no faithful
desire for perfection. He was a memorable master of
youth — master rather than teacher or trainer; an inspirer
of loyalty, an awakener of admiration and devotion,
firing enthusiasm rather than guiding or fortifying it.
Such he was, so he remains with us; and with this
memory the picture he made of himself, in colours so
far less intense and decided, will never rightly accord.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

That discrepancy points to a deeper and obscurer within
him, a rift in a nature never in all its parts adjusted
with itself. But if that disquietude was always there
it was easily borne, easily forgotten in the engrossing
business of the day; and it gave no uncertainty to the
mark he left upon all who knew him and who miss
him now.

Percy Lubbock

1897 — 1^99

In the summer holidays of 1897, during a visit to a
familiar and well-loved house in North Wales, Arthur
Benson began to scribble in a note-book an account
of his days. " Waited for an hour at the station at
Portmadoc; hung on the bridge for half the time;
two little Welsh boys talking funnily ": such was
the casual opening of a narrative that was to last
unbroken, or very nearly so, for twenty-eight years.
There was a reason for its beginning just then. That
summer there had been privately printed a volume
which had a deep effect on him, the Letters and
Journals of William Johnson (afterwards Cory), author
of lonica ; and this book, with its poetic evocation of
the life of another- Eton master, had inspired him
to keep a regular diary of his own, for the first time.
He began, and the habit soon had hold of him. He
carried the note-book with him to Eton, when he
returned there after the holidays, and in the pressure
of work he still contrived to maintain a fairly connected
chronicle — slight and unmethodical at first, but gradu-
ally it settled down to a steady and copious stream of
the detail of the day.

That August in North Wales — he was now aged
thirty-five, and had been a master at Eton for twelve
years — is thus by chance a crucial date in his
biography. Nothing thereafter happened to him from
without, of any importance whatever, which is not
recorded in the diary; day by day, from this time

THE DIARY OF

onward, he may be watched and followed in all his
movements and occupations. The sudden flood of
revelation, breaking in upon his journey, finds him at
the height of his life and work at Eton — fortunate in
his powers, successful in their exercise, with a notable
place and repute among his boys, among his colleagues,
among Etonians generally. He was a schoolmaster
singled out for independence, for originality, for a
peculiar portion of tact and understanding in the
management of the young. He had held a house for
the last five years, and had made it one of the best and
most popular in the school. He was regarded
as a likely headmaster in the future. He was also a
recognised man of letters, with several volumes of
verse and prose to his name. Moreover he was now,
after an earlier time of nervous stress and strain, in
vigorous health and spirits, equal to his work, bearing
its responsibilities with practised ease. In short, it
was a good moment, full of satisfaction and interest,
the future opening before it with abundant promise.
It is true that he was rather unsettled in his mind, not
entirely contented in his calling; his ambitions were
divided; they pulled him steadily towards literature,
doubtfully in the line of his profession. But this
conflict was hardly acute as yet, and six of his most
fruitful and strenuous years as a schoolmaster were
still to come. And now, before the diary is opened,
a rapid account may be given of his course to this
point, the point where it becomes at a stroke so plain
to see and follow.

Arthur Christopher Benson was born on April 24,
1862, at Wellington College, in Berkshire. He was
the second son of Edward White Benson, then head-
master of Wellington, and his wife (who was also his
cousin) Mary Sidgwick. Arthur's elder brother,
Martin, died as a schoolboy at Winchester in 1877.
His younger brothers were Edward Frederick and
Robert Hugh, his sisters were Mary Eleanor and
Margaret — names that here need no more than to be

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

mentioned, for each has its own distinction in this
remarkable fl^mily. Their father became Chancellor
of Lincoln in 1872, Bishop of Truro in 1877, and
Archbishop of Canterbury in 1883. Arthur went
first to school at Temple Grove, East Sheen, and then
in 1874 as a colleger to Eton. In 1881 he went on
to Cambridge, with a scholarship at King's. He was
in the first class of the Classical Tripos in 1884. In
the same year he was offered and accepted a master-
ship at Eton. And again, perhaps, it is needless to
do more than to give these facts and dates in order,
since the story of his early days has been told in
fullness by Arthur himself, and also, from another
angle of vision, by his surviving brother. The triple
memory of Wellington, Lincoln, Truro, the work
their father accomplished in these places and the part
they played in the children's lives, is intimately
shared by all the readers of the children's books. I
need not attempt to tell the story again, but only to
recall how deeply Arthur was still influenced in later
life by certain of the traditions of his childhood.

He was born in a school, the son of a schoolmaster;
the whole of his career was divided between Eton and
Cambridge, and he died the master of his adopted col-
lege. But for all that he was never really scholastic, and
still less academic. Neither school nor university set its
stamp on him; he evaded their influence, he was always
at heart a sojourner in both, sitting loosely; at any
moment he could leave them and feel no urgent call
to return. There was a much stronger appeal for
him elsewhere; it was in the precinct of a cathedral
that he knew himself to be truly at home. Not
Wellington and not schoolmastcring, but Lincoln, the
hierarchy of the close, the realm of the dean
and chapter, planted in him the deepest and most
enduring associations. These also, no doubt, he carried
lightly, for they, no more than any others, could
constrain him; but it was these that he instinctively
understood, that he possessed as his own, after a
manner in which he never possessed or understood

THE DIARY OF

the tradition of school or college. He always said that
he knew the language of the minster-world as he
knew no other; and though he was not often to be seen
in it, the threads of his communication with the back-
ground of his youth were many and unbroken to the
end. He was the least ecclesiastically minded of
men, with all his thought revolting briskly against the
forms and sanctions of authority; nor was he tender
in piety towards the dignified influences of his past.
But none the less they clung to him, and to the last of
his days he was nowhere quite so much at his ease,
quite so certain of his familiar understanding, as with
the Church.

As for his boyhood, the suggestion of all his
surroundings at that time was irresistible; he had no
doubt that he would take orders, devote himself to a
cure in a country parish, and peaceably proceed to
some pleasant canonry or deanery in the distance.
That was the natural prospect, and it had not been
abandoned, I gather, v/hen the offer of work at Eton,
just after he had taken his Cambridge degree, made
up his mind for him otherwise. He always spoke as
though he had only drifted into his profession along
the line of least resistance; and this may not have been
all the truth, but it is clear that at that time, in his
twenty-third year, he was in a state of great agitation
and irresolution, with more than the normal pains of
youth and growth. A crisis of emotion and religion,
no matter exactly how they were mixed, had plunged
him into dark depression — so dark and deep that after
many years he still looked back on his days as an
undergraduate with dismay. Out of that ferment of
trouble came his first book, a fictitious Memoir of
Arthur Hamilton^ which attracted some attention, much
to his annoyance ever after, by a certain vividness
in it of uneasy immaturity. And so at the beginning of
1885, straight from Cambridge and these distresses,
he took his place, and started his work at Eton.

It was a misfortune that he was called back to school
so soon, with no interval left him in which to wander

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

and collect his mind and broaden his experience. His
life was entirely shaped for him, he had no opportunity
to venture for himself; he got no freedom until the
lines on which he could use it were fixed beyond
changing. This he never ceased to regret, with good
reason; he had been too promptly tied to a part and a
position of his own. And yet in a way it mattered
less to him than to another; for he was not a man whom
any part or position could unduly impound — and this
was the healthy side of what was also his unrest, his
inconstancy. To have missed his chance to roam
would never make him acquiescent, conventionally
stiffened in the ways of his calling. Anyhow he set to
work in good heart, apprehending no difficulties and
apparently finding none. He controlled his fourth-
form division and his rapidly filled pupil-room — I
have to assume that I need not explain the *' Eton
system " of his day, as indeed it is said that it is only
known to Etonians and not by them to be explained
— he was easily successful, then, from the first, both
as a division-master and as a classical tutor. Too
easily indeed — as perhaps it may have seemed to the
most severe; and certainly there was no anxious theory
in his method at any time, nor any painfully studied
practice. But with friendliness and humour, with
ready speech and courteous decision, with a gift for
making his wrath uncomfortable and his favour
gratifying — with all this beside his discernment, his
insight into the working of the mind and spirit of
a boy — he had more than enough to carry him
prosperously over his first years as a schoolmaster.
He was appointed to a boarding-house in 1892; but
of his house and what he was for it, what he did
for it, there will be more to say.

Meanwhile he lodged with his colleague and friend
Edward Lyttelton in the house called Baldwin's Shore,
by Barnes Pool — there first, and then by himself in
rooms over Williams's bookshop, opposite the west
end of chapel. Of his other friends in the place,
Herbert Tatham was then and afterwards (till he died

THE DIARY OF

in 1909) always the nearest — his is a name and a
memory to be set beside Arthur Benson's in any
account of those years; and there were many more who
will presently be met in the diary, older and younger
colleagues, his constant companions in mutual hospi-
tality through the half and the holidays. The life of
Eton absorbed him more and more; but it always left
room — or by careful economy of time it was made to
leave room — for plentiful literary work, mostly verse
for some years to come; and on that side of his interests
he soon touched the world of letters outside Eton,
mainly by the offices of a friend, Edmund Gosse, with
whom his alliance was thenceforward lifelong. And
then there was always Lambeth, or more generally
Addington, for a home in the holidays, though neither
of these places ever attached him like the provinces of
his youth. On the whole it was with Eton and his
friends of Eton that the years were filled ; but it is not
to be forgotten that Eton is the centre of a very large
radiation, and that the circle of an Eton tutor takes a
broad sweep through English life. The master of a
pupil-room, and soon of a house, so popular as
Arthur Benson's had friends everywhere, a range of
acquaintance and affiliation which spread far and wide
as time went on.

His first boarding-house w?s one of the two, the
low white one, which then stood on the site of the
present School Hall; from whence he soon moved to
that which is now called Gulliver's, after its ancient
dame of the last century; and thence again in 1895
to a house by the back-entrance of Brewer's Yard — a
double house, its two halves joined by a passage-way
over the gate of the yard. The lesser half, the
" cottage," still survives, and the archway too; but the
main building, with its comfortable old bow-windows,
and the huge wistaria-trunk that hung across the low
front-door, perished by conflagration many years ago,
and a new house, Baldwin's End, stands in its place.
In these migrations, I may be allowed to say in
passing, this present editor was one of the flock that

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

accompanied him; and it was in the twin buildinp: by
Brewer's Yard, looking out from that secluded corner
ov'er garden and field to Windsor Castle, that we
attained our due rank in the school as a full-sized
house, with a position of our own and a growing record
of success. An Eton house is a compact polity, a
city-state within the large vague boundary of the
school; and we inside our walls lived a life that was
informed and ordered, more than we knew, by its
presiding genius. His rule was very liberal; he had a
summary way with details and trivialities, he brushed
them aside and talked to us like a friendly host; there
was nothing narrow or parochial in the easy circle of
his influence. But he was paramount, he was absolute
in his rule, and our freedom was never laxity; nor
was it entrusted to our own guiding and disposing as
much as perhaps we thought. To give a young
disciple the sense of greater responsibility than he is
really allowed — that is surely the stroke of a clever-
handed master. It was Arthur Benson's, without doubt.
He acted swiftly in discipline, never tediously or
provocatively; and we seemed to live in the free air of
the world, like rational beings.

And so we reach the year 1897, " diamond jubilee
year," and a midsummer half much occupied with
rehearsals in the playing-fields for our torchlight
parade before the Queen at the Castle — evolutions,
intricate pattern-weavings, shot through in memory by
the great boom of the voice of the Head, our tremen-
dous Warre. These preparations, and the Queen's visit
to Eton, and then the flaring and songful parade itself,
successfully achieved on its night, brought history
into that half for all of us — and in a special fashion,
as it chanced, for Arthur Benson. He wrote the words
of one of our songs, a lyrical tribute to Herself; and
this may count as the modest beginning of an affair
touching royalty that was to grow to importance for
him later on. There was soon a time when he
appeared an unofficial laureate of the Court, so punc-
tually he was in demand for poems, hymns, canticles

c 33

THE DIARY OF

on various occasions of interest to Queen Victoria;
and so it went on till, after she was gone, a weightier
behest from the Castle brought his long-desired release
from school. For already in 1897 the routine of his
work so oppressed him at times that he began to
reckon his resources, exploring possibilities of escape;
but these were as yet too doubtful and hazardous for
a decided step. However, it mattered the less because
he had now at last shaken off, it seemed, that trouble
of his nerves which had distressed him periodically since
his Cambridge days — and very badly in particular
(we little guessed it at the time) during his first
years as a housemaster. He rejoiced in the relief;
though the other burden, the school-work, more and
more vexed him as needlessly heavy, wasteful of
strength and effort. It was the " system " ; his vigorous
indictment of it, heart-felt, loudly ingeminated in
later days, had begun.

And then, to complete the account of his situation
at this moment, a loss had recently fallen upon him,
affecting him very deeply, bringing great changes in
the background of his life. His father, Archbishop
of Canterbury since 1883, had died very suddenly the
year before — sunk down and died while he knelt on a
Sunday morning in Hawarden Church. The influence
of that remarkable man upon his son has been
described by the son — an influence that partly defeated
itself, it would seem, in early days, so exactingly, so
purposefully it was exerted; but still it was the greatest
of facts in the lives of all the children, and on Arthur
perhaps it had never been stronger than it had grown
to be of late, in increasing intimacy with his father.
Nor was it lessened now, it was enhanced rather; for
in writing the life of the Archbishop (it was his chief
literary task for the next two years) his fuller discovery
of him, his deepened sense of his father's singular
genius, abidingly impressed his imagination. They
were very unlike each other, the father with his high
moral fervour and the son with his versatile impatience;
it was in the eager, the far more flexible and penetrat-

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1897

ing sympathy of his mother that Arthur found the
truest understanding, then and ever. But the thought
of his father was constantly with him as he grew
older — how constantly, how intensely is shown
by a frequent note in the diar}^: " Dreamt with
extraordinary vividness of E.W.B."

And now to open the first of the hundred-and-eightv'
little volumes — with a few glimpses of him in his
work at Eton, on various days of the Michaelmas
half, 1897.

" A new division, sitting like mice, all demure; they
seem amiable and serious. I wonder what W.J. would
have said at the decorum, the discipline, the friendliness
that new prevail. I hardly ever raise my voice above a
conversational tone, and very rarely set a punishment.
But it's a precarious trade, and depends much on calm
nerves."

" Last Sunday I lectured on Philemon with great care
— I thought successfully. I read Pliny's letter on a
similar subject. By Wednesday evening Eddy Cadogan
had forgotten that I had said anything, and did not know
who Philemon was: ' I get so mixed about the Epistles,
sir ' — had never heard (he said) of Onesimus. A good
lesson to me^ at all events."

" Warre consulted me whether he should set books
for private reading, to be marked in Trials. I criticised
details. But this won't give a love of reading — the
bribing and paying is bad. Athletics are the only serious
thing; literature is thought an amiable foible. I have a
jcjo boys who respect knowledge. But the only time
when real gravity and momentousness comes into a boy's
face is when _>'{/« talk of serious faults, or when they talk of
athletics."

'* I am very busy: rather happy: God knows I am not
complacent ... I am nobody in this busy place except
a pleasant, sociable person, rather reclusive, but amiable
when extracted. I have no influence or weight. My
business capacities are mistrusted, my accuracy doubted,
my originative powers discredited, my ' auctoritas '

1 897] THE DIARY OF

non-existent. I do not mind this, but it keeps me
humble, I hope."

'* I have my hands too full, but on the whole I get
more happiness from over-fulness. The result of it
is a kind of despair and irritability, while the result of
leisure and insufficient work is with me inevitable
depression.

" To-day I sit for an hour and a half rewriting a copy
of Latin Alcaics by C. on ' Strikes.' They are quite
worthless. C. has no sort of scholarship or literary
taste; he is to give up classics for history the moment he
leaves. The work racks my brain — it is the hardest
work I have to do — and it is poor enough when done,
because the subject is impossible. Meanwhile to do
this I scamp my history paper, cannot give a word of
help to my fourth-form boys in pupil-room. And C.
does not know v/hat it means, and Warre probably does
not look it over; but this form of work is what is called
the Eton system — to crush the master under mechanical
and useless work, give him no scope for stimulating work
with his pupils, knock him up with exhaustion, and for
two or three boys who don't read what is written and
don't know whether it is good or bad. This will be
incredible fifty years hence.

" My division still very demure and seemingly awed.
I dare say I shall find out my mistake. They do not see
my jests, but look gravely at me and make a note."

These are characteristic moments and moods,
lightly noted as they passed and not to be lingered
over now. A fuller and more continuous picture of
his life at Eton it will unfortunately not be possible to
find in his diary for some time to come — and this for
more than one reason. The work of the week, with
Latin Alcaics and lectures on Philemon and the like
scattered thickly over the ever-present cares and
claims of his house — all this was too close to him and
too insistent to be sketched at large in his note-book.
And he was rather slow in acquiring a confident and
easy tone for his diary's reflections on the day; I notice,

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1897

for instance, what he says about his unconsidered state
at Eton, and I know that he well knew that he was
far from being " nobody in this place." He is not
yet entirely alone with himself as he writes. " In
this long gap," he mentions one day, " the book has
been paying calls — to Lady Ponsonby and others ":
very pleasant for them all, no doubt, but a frank free
journal needs to live more secluded, and this one was
at first too apt to take the air. " That story, mind,"
Lady Ponsonby herself remarks later on, after a con-
versation, "is not for your too accessible diary!"
And the diary, till at length it retired into greater
privacy, suffered more than the loss of the anecdote
in question. The touch of constraint is very light,
but it is felt.

The same good friend reproached him, it appears,
for always spending his holidays in the company of his
colleagues; and it is true that his holidays by this time
had a pattern from which they seldom varied. Once
he used to go abroad — with small enthusiasm, and not
often at that; three or four times to Italy and Spain,
and then occasionally to Switzerland, with a short-
lived inclination towards Alpine climbing. It was
strange to see how completely incurious about foreign
parts he remained thereafter; in thirty years he never
crossed the sea but once, and then only on doctor's
orders. All his mterests were limited by the British
coast, lively as they were within it; foreign ways dis-
agreed with him, foreign tongues baffled him — he
preferred to stay at home. And at home he could
rarely be tempted to venture into strange houses; so
that a Christmas holiday in which he actually visited
two — Malwood and Claremont, no less — must be
recalled as against his friend's rebuke. With Sir
William Harcourt and his family he had older associa-
tions; but when, m this December of 1897, he stayed
with the Duchess of Albany at Claremont, he made
the beginning of a firm friendship of many years, and
presently her young son was a lower-boy in his house.
In the same holidays, moreover, he is found at

1898] THE DIARY OF

Farnham Castle, with Bishop Davidson of Winchester;
but there he was in a circle where he was all but son and
brother, so many and so close were the ties between his
own family and that of his father's former chaplain —
soon to become Archbishop of Canterbury in his turn.

In general, however, his vacations were very like
each other. There were in those days two familiar
houses on which a great deal of Eton converged in
holiday-time, homes of lavish hospitality to many, to
Arthur Benson among the first; and both these houses,
with the friends and colleagues who presided in them,
had a larger place in his life than a few words can
describe. To Dunskey, in Scotland, and to Tan-yr-
allt, in North Wales, he returned again and again;
with Stuart Donaldson and his family at Dunskey,
with Arthur Ainger (and often with Howard Sturgis,
a joint-host) at Tan, he was among some of his most
constant companions at Eton. And if he was not stay-
ing with them in one place or the other, he was likely
to be established with Herbert Tatham in some
provincial inn, exploring the countryside with a
thorough-going zeal that was never to be exhausted.
Or else he was at Winchester, where his mother had
now settled for a time; and so the holidays slipped
away, and he was back at school again, rather un-
willingly, with a spirit that sank at the thought of the
drudgery of the crowded weeks, though rising to
vanquish it very soon.

It is now the summer of 1898; and I recall his easy
and agreeable control of the talk " at dinner and other
times," how he freshened it out of the staleness of our
common routine, as I read the first of the notes that
follow.

" I think the big boys in the house full of tact. They
labour to talk to me on general subjects at dinner and
other times, and not only don't expect me to talk
athletics, but if the talk veers round thither, steer me
away for fear of my betraying my ignorance, with
delightful geniality."

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1898

" I wrote two sonnets in the evening before dinner.
I find myself much slower at writing poetry and much
less disposed to do it than two years ago. 1 don't think
I have the real spring. I think I have a certain power of
feeling the interest of certain aspects of nature; I have a
somewhat microscopic eye, and find more beauty in
hedgerows, deserted quarries, little pools and streams,
railway-cuttings, back-gardens, than I do in great
panoramas of mountains or in sensational prospects. I
have a certain facility in language, and now and then a
gleam of artistic excitement. But this is not enough, and
I must, I think, resign all hopes of a poetical future. I
fancy that two or three of my poems may get included
in Victorian anthologies, but I cannot be a " bright
particular star." John Lane has just sent me an
account: my Poems out of print — 260 of the Lyrics left
and 230 of Lord Vyet. I shall publish one more
volume and then shut up shop."

" My division awfully nice and good, patient, silent,
attentive, obedient and rather interested. I wander wide
in talk. But the classics are poor pabulum, I fear. I live
in dread of the public finding out how bad an education
is the only one I can communicate. We do nothing
to train fancy, memory, taste, imagination; we do not
stimulate. We only make the ordinary boy hate and
despise books and knowledge generally; but we make
them conscientious — good drudges, I think."

" (The end of the half). I have had a meek division,
over whom I think I have rather tyrannised: very good,
obedient, and on the whole keen pupils: and a perfectly
angelic house — halycon days. ... I seem to get credit
for anything that I do just now. I must throw my ring
into the sea."

" (At Dunskey). I discussed marriage with Miss
Browne. We decided that the old maid was much
happier than the old bachelor, because she generally had
a circle and home ties — no such selfish ineffective loneli-
ness as the old bachelor. True, I think. I wish I saw
my way out. The engagement of both Mason and
Carter, the only two members of the celibate brotherhood

1898] THE DIARY OF

of Truro, gives me hope; but I don't think it is good to
marry after forty. Still I can believe that it is wisely
withheld from me, partly as a lenis castigatio for my
many infirmities and partly because I am not loyal-
hearted.

** I am thankful the summer is over. What a strange
and wonderful thing that I should be here, so richly
surrounded with sweet things and good graceful people
when I deserve so little. I never used to think I should
live to be thirty, and even now I never dare to look for-
ward more than a few months. It is inconceivable to
me to think that the world will go marching on year after
year and that I may still be there. And if not, where.''
... I drove away (from Dunskey) with sinking heart —
tears in my eyes — like a schoolboy going to school. All
evening I thought of what they would be doing. I
cannot be grateful enough for all that the beloved place
and the beloved people have been to me."

As for the question of marriage, so philosophically
discussed with Miss Browne — she was a lady of very
vivid and decided views, and I surmise that her part
in the debate has lost some of its trenchancy — it was
exceedingly like him to describe as ** wisely withheld "
things that he actively and resolutely kept at a distance.
The people he did not want to see, the places he would
not visit, were very apt to be removed out of his way
by an inscrutable providence — to whose decree he
submitted with perfect composure. There were
those among his friends who for their part were not so
meek; they refused to be so patiently relinquished.
But he was not to be laughed out of his firm trust in a
ruling that ruled out unwanted things; and one of
them was marriage — or not indeed the state of
marriage, but the necessary measures and steps thereto
conducting. None of these, not even the first and
commonest and most important, did he ever take; and
sometimes he wished, he very regretfully wished,
that he was already married, but he never had the least
disposition to begin to be. Or almost never, did he

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1898

say? — for I hear him talk of it with cheerful freedom.
It was a distinction with very little difference, in any
case.

" At Du>iskey dgai>i^ December^ 1898. — A conversation
with him (St. Clair Donaldson*) about fogeydom. He
said that he was losing keenness, becoming middle-aged;
he didn't want to do things, but to be left alone with a
book. I said that I was still inspired by intense prefer-
ences— still believed I was an unappreciated genius and
should set the Thames on fire — continued successive
assaults on the public, a perpetual battery at the door of
fame — a renewed and feverish bastinado of the reading
public. He said that it exonerated me from fogeydom.
But we agreed that the only thing was to grow old
gracefully."

''Eton, February, 1899. — I gave them (a party of
colleagues) of my best wines and dishes. We smoked.
At 9.30 Bonham Carter called to see me, and sate in the
smoky, flaring, napkined dining-room — which was more
like a little dining-room in Park Lane than the Attic
feast of seven grave and poverty-stricken professors. I
was vexed that he should come then.

" I read a few pages of Cory, which always brings up
by cords of pathos and delight the deep well-water of the
poetry of this life. I can't express what that book does
for me.

" Met Her Majesty, who has shirked the crossing to
Cimiez to-day, on Windsor Bridge — an outrider on a
grey horse in black livery in front, with long whip, another
behind. H.M. looked very old, heavy, melancholy,
and almost purple in complexion. But she is a gallant
old thing."

" Tork Cathedra/, Easter, 1899. — The moment we
entered the old spell fell on me: the fragrant scent of
antiquity, the muffled sounds, the mild warmth, the

• Afterwards Archbishop of Brisbane, and now (since 192 1) Bishop of
Salisbury.

1899] THE DIARY OF

soaring roof, all affect me as few other things do. . . .
I am sure, if there is any metempsychosis, that I was once
a monk — or say a secular canon."

May 24, 1899, was Queen Victoria's eightieth
birthday. Eton had again its part in celebrating the
occasion; a jubilee hymn was sung, for which Arthur
Benson had written a new birthday verse; and this
time things went further.

" May 24. — To-day we met at 8.45 (no early school)
in the playing-fields, but dismissed owing to downpour.
At 9.15 we met in school-yard — a hot steaming day,
like an orchid-house; marched up to the Castle, and after
a wait got into the yard. The Queen was breakfasting
in a room over the porch. The choirs sang very sweetly.
We joined in the fourth verse only of the jubilee hymn,
and my verse was beautifully sung afterwards. Then
two madrigals, one very poor. A good many boys
fainted, thirteen in all, and sat in a row, green-faced and
bewildered, on a little bench under the wall.* Sir A.
Bigge came to fetch me to the Queen, hardly to my
surprise; I was presented to the Duke of Connaught.
Then we went upstairs and appeared in the corridor;
the Queen sate rather in shadow, her white widow's cap
showing very clear; she wore large round black specta-
cles. Soundy, the Mayor, preceded us; then Sir W.
Parratt, to whom she made a little civil speech. Then I
appeared, bowing, and drew as near as I dared. ' I must
thank you for having written such a beautiful verse,' she
said: ' it has been a great pleasure to me.' I bowed
and withdrew, rather clumsily, as I had forgotten the
backward walk, and only remembered it after a moment.
However, I did not quite turn my back on the Queen, I
think.

" But what was an entire surprise to me, and will
remain with me as long as I live, was her voice. It was
so slow and sweet — some extraordinary simplicity about
it — much higher than I had imagined, and with nothing
cracked or imperious, or (as the imitations misled me

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1899

into thinking) gobbly. It was like the voice of a very
young, tranquil woman. The phrases sounded a little
like a learnt lesson, but the tone was beautiful — a peculiar
genuineness about it; I felt as if I really hcid given her
pleasure. Her face was much in shadow, and contused;
I couldn't see it clearly. But it was all very tremendous
somehow; and though, if I had had the choice, I would
not have dared to go, I am now thankful to have seen her
and had speech from her." •

And let it here be noted that they met again; later
in the year he dined with her privately at the Castle
and had longer speech, to no less pleasing effect. In
the following year, the last of her life, I lose count of
the poetical commissions, already mentioned, with
which he was from time to time entrusted. And
then, early in 1901, " It is like the roof being off the
house," he writes, *' to think of England queenless."

Meanwhile, in the summer of 1899, comes the
first sight of a place which for nearly twenty years
was to be his home — much more intimately his home
than any of the various houses that he acquired on his
own account at different times. His mother, leaving
Winchester, went to live in a beautiful old house in
Sussex — Tremans, near Horsted Keynes. " I have
never seen a more captivating place," writes Arthur;
and indeed with its mellow ripeness and redness, its
well-worn dignit)', the rambling inconsequence of its
panelled rooms, the sweetness of its garden from the
great yew hedge by the lane to the pigeon-cote by the
farm, Tremans had a spell that could be resisted by
none who passed that way. The country around, the
huge woods and green valleys and hidden streams of
the Sussex Weald, between the Forest and the Downs,
holds beauty everywhere, in all the weather of the year
— and beauty exactly of the friendly, kindly sort that
Arthur loved; he soon knew it by heart for miles

* Some of the foregoing extracts have been slightly condensed and
abridged. From this point they will be quoted as they appear in the diary,
and all omissions indicated.

1899] THE DIARY OF

in all directions. Tremans became very dear to him,
and not less dear before long to his friends. A spirit
reigned there of which it is difficult to speak rightly;
for the right words should describe the light of the
charity, the ring of the gaiety, the charm of the
genius of Arthur's mother; and for those who knew
and loved Tremans when she was there the memory
is not to be matched by words. But Tremans will
often be seen again in this book, and never without
the happiness of the presence of Mrs. Benson.

The summer that was the beginning of Tremans
was also, less fortunately, the end of Tan. That
home of many holidays now passed out of the hands
of the two friends (they had been tutor and pupil at
Eton) who have already been named. Of these two
also, Ainger and Howard Sturgis, there is much more
to be heard in the future; but a sight of them shall
not be missed during Arthur's last visit to Tan.

" Tan-yr-allt, September 14 — . . . . Ainger and Howard
between them certainly make wonderful hosts. A. has
the organizing turn which is needed in these parties.
He is good-humoured, tolerant, not talkative, but pun-
gent, with a keen relish for humour; smiles more often
than he laughs, and consequently when he is betrayed
into a laugh it is a delightful sound. He sneezes once a
day like a thunderclap. Howard, on the other hand, is
observing, subtle, sensitive, smoothing over and adorn-
ing all social occasions with a perpetual flow of witty,
unexpected, graceful talk that never palls or wearies.
He will fall in with any mood, interpret any suggestion,
make the most of any shy point, and give everyone the
feeling of their own brilliance. All this has increased;
he used to be capable of and to indulge in very malicious
little strokes of satire, which were always true enough
to make them bite. I was always conscious with a kind
of fearful joy that he was in the house, and used to be
inclined, when either he or I entered a room, to look at
him curiously to see whether he was in the melting or
the freezing mood. Now, somehow, I seem to have

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1899

drifted into a kind of quiet harbour with regard to him
— and as a consequence of this element of uncertainty-
being abstracted, enjoy his society far more, am far more
contented to be with him than ever, though perhaps less
consciously."

Ainger, lean and stalwart, the generous and
peremptory' friend of so many decades of Etonians,
was still at this time a housemaster in the school,
though his retirement was near. Howard Sturgis
(who lived near by in Windsor) is known to some
as a writer of two or three novels of penetrating
perception, and remembered and loved and missed by
troops of friends for what he was to them — one whose
friendship was apart, by itself, unlike any other in its
original and enchanting quality. He died in 1920.

At Michaelmas of 1899 Arthur Benson moved
into another house at Eton, the last he was to occupy
there; he gave it the name it still bears, Godolphin
House. Here he found more space and more
convenience, but also at first more discontent. It was
not to his boys that this was due; indeed it was rather
a special moment of credit and renown in their annals.
They had won the school cricket-cup that summer,
as this chronicle should not omit to record; and to
their house-tutor, as usual, they were the only mitiga-
tion— they and the division that he taught — of the
oppression of his work. Loud and long as he groans
under this, he never has a word for the boys in his
charge that is not affection and pride. And here let
me add that when he praises his fortune in ruling
such a house, he expressly gives the merit, a large share
of it, to the " dame " who divided the responsibility
— to Mrs. Cox, the devoted friend and matron of
his house throughout its histor)\ Her name is
' always to be celebrated in this connection, as her
health was always drunk with acclamation at the
'* old boys' dinner." And the servants, too, are not
to be forgotten by us who recall their friendliness,
their zeal, their good-natured tolerance of the ways

I900] THE DIARY OF

and whims of boys. The master of the house was
loyally served, and he well knew it.

But before returning to his diary at Eton, I give
another holiday picture — from his first visit to Rye,
and to the house which long afterwards he was to
occupy himself. He spent a night there at the
beginning of 1900, the guest of Henry James.

'■^Lamb House^ Rye^ January 17, 1900. — Now let me
dip my pen in rainbow hues — or rather let me be exact,
finished, delicate, to describe the charm of this
place. . . .

*' Henry James, looking somewhat cold, tired and
old, met me at the station: most affectionate, patting me
on the shoulder and really welcoming, with abundance of
petits soins.

" The town stands on a steep sort of island, rising
from the great sea-plain. Inland it is separated from
hilly country by one valley only; but south and south-
east the flat plain stretches like a green chessboard for
miles. You see the winding stream, very pale in the
sunset, the shipyards, the houses of Rye Harbour, the
strand dotted with Martello towers, the wooded heights
of Winchelsea, the great ocean-steamers passing up and
down channel, and the great green expanse of Romney
Marsh.

" The town is incredibly picturesque. It has a moul-
dering castle, a great gateway, a huge church like a
cathedral, a few gabled and timbered cottages — but for
the most part is built of wholesome Georgian brick, with
fine mouldings, good doorhoods, and with an air of
Dutch trimness and bourgeois stateliness, like a
cathedral town, which breathes tranquillity. We
walked slowly up, and came to Lamb house. It is sober
red Georgian; facing you as you come up is the bow-
window of the garden-house with all its white casements
— used by H.J. to write in in summer. The house has a
tall door, strangely fortified inside by bolts, admitting into
a white panelled hall. There are three small panelled
sitting-rooms, besides the dining-room. The place has

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1900

been carefully done up, and is very clean, trim, precise,
but all old and harmonious. . . .

" Dined simply at 7.30, with many apologies from
HJ. about the fare. ... He was full of talk, though he
looked weary, often passing his hand over his eyes; but
he refined and defined, was intricate, magniloquent,
rhetorical, humorous, not so much like a talker, but
like a writer repeating his technical processes aloud —
like a savant working out a problem. He told me a long

story about , and spoke with hatred of business

and the monetary side of art. He evidently thinks that
art is nearly dead among English writers — no criticism,
no instinct for what is good. . . . He talked of Mrs.
Oliphant, Carlyle — whatever I began. ' I had not read
a h^te that the poor woman had written for years — not for
years; and when she died, Henley — do you know him, the
rude, boisterous, windy, headstrong Henley ? — Henley,
as I say, said to me, "Have you read Kirsteen?'' I
replied that as a matter of fact, no — h'm — I had not read it.
Henley said, " That you should have any pretensions
to interest in literature and should dare to say that
you have not read Kirsteen! " I took my bludgeoning
patiently and humbly, my dear Arthur — went back
and read it, and was at once confirmed, after twenty
pages, in my belief — I laboured through the book —
that the poor soul had a simply feminine conception of
literature: such slipshod, imperfect, halting, faltering,
peeping, down-at-heel work — buffeting along like a
ragged creature in a high wind, and just struggling to
the goal, and falling in a quivering mass of faintness and
fatuity. Yes, no doubt she was a gallant woman —
though with no species of wisdom — but an artist, an
artist — ! ' He held his hands up and stared woefully
at me. . . .

" H.J. works hard; he establishes me in a little high-
walled white parlour, very comfortable, but is full of fear
that I am unhappy. He comes in, pokes the fire, presses
a cigarette on me, puts his hand on my shoulder, looks
inquiringly at me, and hurries away. His eyes are
piercing. To see him, when I came down to breakfast

I900] ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
this morning, in a kind of Holbein square cap of velvet
and black velvet coat, scattering bread on the trozen
lawn to the birds, was delightful. . . .

'' We lunched together with his secretary, a young
Scot H.J. ate little, rolled his eyes, waited on us
walked about, talked-finally hurried me off for a strol
before my train. All his instincts are of a kmd that
make me feel vulgar— his consideration, hospitality, care
of arrangement, thoughtfulness. ... He seemed to
know everyone to speak to— an elderly clergyman in a
pony-carriage, a young man riding Three nice-looking
[nrlJmet us, two of fourteen and fifteen, and a httle maid
of seven or eight, who threw herself upon HJ with
cooing noises of delight and kissed him repeatedly and
effusively, the do^s also bounding up to him. He intro-
duced me with great gravity. ... We got to the station;
he said an affectionate farewell, pressing me to come
aeain- I went away refreshed, stimulated, sobered and
journeyed under a dark and stormy sky to the dreary
and loathsome town of Hastings."

1900 — 1903

** Eton, February 26, 1900. — Monday: hateful day of
fierce, arid, consuming work, done, not for the improve-
ment of the boys — indeed, apart from them — but to
satisfy my critical colleagues. I go from school to
school, with pupils and piles of exercises crammed in,
I walked up to Windsor: some gleams of sun. Came
down: saw Ainger and Cornish setting off for a walk, a
thing they have done at 3.45 on Monday for thirty-five
years — if only people would do something different!
Ainger walks solidly, religiously, gravely. The boys all
coming out of school, by the cannon — one talking to
Bowlby with his hat off; they were doing this twenty-
six years ago when I was a boy; and here I have been
practically ever since, fast bound. I beat against the
wires. What an odd poor thing life is — and yet should
I be happier free? And that is the poorest thint^ of all,
that the cage, the burrow, the haunt grows s'o dear.
Watched a robin sing in my garden — hard-worked to
keep himself fed; I suppose he was born, lived all his life
and will die in this privet-hedge. Why should not I be
content to do the same? And then it comes over me in
a flash that I am nearly forty, and yet don't feel as
if the serious business of life had begun, or as if I had
really settled down to a profession — as if that was to

come

This year, 1900, was an uneventful but a troubled
time — troubled by nervous depression, and still more

D 49

,9oo] THE DIARY OF

by these difficult doubts and questions. " I have no
scholastic ambition whatever," he writes one day,
" and I have, absurd as it may seem, immense literary
ambitions. 1 am sure that the double work cannot
be carried on much longer." To throw himself upon
literature, once for all, seemed still too rash; and on
the other hand, if he remained a schoolmaster now
was the time when he might be looking for larger
honours and opportunities in his calling iwo
important headmasterships happened before long to
fall vacant, and for both he was strongly urged to
offer himself as a candidate. He stood aside from
these without much hesitation; it was easy to resolve
that he would not go out to seek preferment, desiring
it so little. But another possibility hung now in the
air, nearer home; and this would in course of time
brine a question much harder to determine Did he
wish to be headmaster of Eton ?-for Warre was
aeing, his resignation was foreseen, and it was treely
suggested in many quarters that Arthur Benson was
the man to succeed him. It was a troubling prospect
However, there was still time to think of that; and
meanwhile, daily more forcibly, the vexation of his
work was turning his mind towards freedom. He
went so far as to buy a house in Windsor—the Gate
House, by the entrance to the Long Walk— against
the day of his retirement. He never lived there in
the event; but he dwelt upon the thought of it much
more willingly than upon the other contingency ot
the headmastership. That would require a decision
which he was glad to postpone while he might.

Such is alfthe account to be given of an uneasy
year— except to note that in the course of it Tremans
grew ever more dear and delightful, and that another
Lreeable chapter, that of Dunskey, was closed this
summer, the tenancy of the Donaldsons having come
to an end. And now an extract, not from the still
too accessible diary, but from a more secluded
notebook, will show how he thought ot the
headmastership in 1901.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1901

'''May 4, 1 90 1. — Since the last entry in this book I
have been keeping a much fuller diary. But people
occasionally see the other; so I put a note down here of
an interesting interview.

" I dined with Warre on Thursday, May 2. He
told me as I went away that he wanted to see me
* to-morrow — any time.' I did not know what this
could be about. I thought that perhaps H.E.L. had
intimated to him my discontent, and he wished to ask
me about it.

" I went in at 12.0, after school. He was sitting, looking
over papers, and seemed unwilling to break off, but he
motioned me to a chair, and then with great hesitation
and a sort ot nervousness, said that he had something
on his mind to tell me, and had wished to say it for long
— he wished me to take orders. He then went on to
say that he could not be headmaster long — three or four
years — and he hoped that I should succeed him. It
needed an Eton man and a wise man, who would make
wise changes and not fear popular clamour or the
newspapers. He thought that in general ways I agreed
with him about the tendency of reforms, and he wished to
hand on the work to me. He should do all in his power
to secure it — I should have to take my chance, of course,
with other candidates. Then about orders — others
would follow my lead; if I decided not^ and it was, of
course, a matter for my own decision, he would be the
last person to judge me. . . . But he believed that a great
career was before me, and that I ought to think of it.
He bound me to absolute secrecy — to my nearest and
dearest. And one thing touched me very much. He
put his hand on my arm as we stood by the fireplace, and
said, rather confusedly, with his hand over his eyes, ' I
have unburdened my mind of this; I have long thought
of it, and thought I ought to speak — I have not liked
speaking — but I have spoken because I hold you liege '
(or did he say liej?) ' and dear.' It is at a moment like
that that I feel I could do anything for him.

" But really I hardly agree with him at all. I cannot
take orders, of course. I am a faithful member of the

I90I] THE DIARY OF

fold, up to a certain point. I am a believer; but a High
Church Bishop would laugh at my position from the
point of view of orders, and even H. Ryle would knit
his brows. But this is not even a temptation. Prominent
position and great work are so bound up in my mind
with gene and odious publicities and bonds of all kinds
that I do not desire them; my heart does not leap
up at the thought of it at all. Of course orders would
get me a share of such pickings as there are, but I don't
want loaves and fishes at that price. I should be afflicted
with permanent moral asthma. The Devil who tempts
me, if he does tempt me here, has done it in a very half-
hearted way. Probably he thinks that he has his rod
in my nostril, anyhow. God guide me in this strange
world! "

There the matter lay, then, for the present, to be
re-examined occasionally, but always to much the
same result. Of taking orders there had never been
any thought since youthful days; but it was not
impossible that Warre's successor should be a
layman, and this side of the question remained
open accordingly, with nothing as yet to make the
answer any clearer.

^^ June 17, 1 90 1. — On Thursday last I went up to
town to hear my Ode to Music* performed at the opening
of the new hall of the Royal College of Music. ... To
the Athenaeum, where I entered with much shyness, and
introduced myself as a new member, but was ordered
about rather by the domestics. Under the wing of the
Vice-Provost I lunched. At a little table by the door,
laden with silver covers, sate Chamberlain, reading a
Westminster Gazette held high up and close to his eyes.
Occasionally he snapped food like a turtle. I found
that the paper contained some offensive statements about
himself. He is older-looking, paler, more lymphatic
than formerly, but incredibly perky and hard, ploughing
the air with his sharp nose and glassy eye; but he gave me

♦ Set by Sir Hubert Parry.
52

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1901

the impression ot amiability. Asquith, looking like a
bishop, was ranging the room; and many other well-
known faces. But the club is neither so large nor so
sumptuous as I had expected; the dining-room is rather
dirty and odorous. The staircase mean: there should
be full-length pictures of men in wigs and frock-
coated, whiskered politicians — ' retired panthers,' as
Tennyson said, smiling over puffed expanses of shirt-
front. Instead, there are two rather improper nymphs
in oily plaster, crouching one at each end of a
sofa. . . .

** Then we drove to the Royal College of Music. A
great gathering : and I saw many people I knew — Lloyd,
Schuster, Alan Gray, and innumerable others near me.
Parratt came and talked and expressed his entire approval.
Stanford took up his place as conductor, and the
National Anthem struck up as the Duke of Cambridge
came in, with his face like a damaged double strawberry,
looking very infirm. He was taken to a red arm-
chair in the front, where he dozed; in the soft passage
of a violin movement, a few minutes later, all the
books and papers they had given him fell out of his
old, drowsy hand on to the ground, and he did not even
pick them up.

" What I liked about the performance was the way in
which they (the students) sang and played, minding their
business, with intense zest and inner pleasure, and with
no ad captandum self-conscious glances. A boy, rather
like Blake ma., in a short coat, played some Saint-Saens
variations; very nervous when he came on, but getting
better and playing triumphantly — a very beautiful, sad
and solemn thing, like a soul resigned to death and
welcoming it — and sittmg afterwards beaming with
inward delight and with the form of his countenance
changed by having got it all over.

" A woman with a green-trimmed hat sang, or rather
howled, a musical-box thing of Rossini's — rather well
done, but not very attractive, though I did not hate it as
Fred did. I always think that the passage about Rossini
in Browning is a very unfair and unworthy one, and

i9oi] THE DIARY OF

shows how hopelessly musical taste changes, and how
unpardonable it is for one musician to give himself airs
because he happens to be the vogue, airs of pontifical
disapprobation. There is no absolute canon of beauty
in music or in anything else; fifty years hence people will
probably talk of Wagner as claptrap, and wonder how
anyone could admire. The only dignity in art is the
dignity of doing your best, whatever it is, without
reference to praise.

*' Still, the howling woman with her smiles, her rou-
lades, her tremolos, her siren screams and sharp light-
nings of sound was unpleasing. . . . But the look of the
enthusiastic, quiet, devoted boys and girls was very
pleasant. The Ode was magnificent. ... It was very
well received; while the students shouted 'author' I
fled. . . .

" I walked away with Fred. These little crowded
bursts interest and please me. Perhaps I should soon
sicken of them, but as things are they make me dis-
contented; I shudder at the idea of going back to look
over piles of verses, patter into school, solve domestic
squabbles. If I was not greatly interested in my boys
I could not stand it."

Kings College^ Cambridge^ August 4. — My division
did very well in trials; I took a very affectionate farewell
of them and of halcyon days. I have never been so much
at my ease, never felt myself so entirely in sympathy with
a set of people: the whole thirty-six notes vibrated true
to my touch. They sang like the grasshopper who
leapt on the harp and took the place of the broken
string. There was no question of governing: they
answered to my smallest hint. This was not so much my
own personal influence as a general harmony — every
one in the right place. I am not conscious of having
had to use influence or tact or persuasion, still less anger
or displeasure. I told them that they were both good-
humoured and sensible, and that I should long regret
them. They poured photos on me — and real goodwill,
I am sure. . . .

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1901

" At last I rushed off, drove across town — a great
crowd at St. Pancras — got the ^.^. and was at Cambridge
by 6.30.

" I experienced the most poignant and yet luxurious
sensations. I have not been here for thirteen years,
since I took my degree — partly huffiness at the policy of
the college, partly affairs. As we drew near Cambridge
all the familiar things began to come back: the inn at
Whittlesford, where we used to have tea in the old
bicycling days, the Gogs, the familiar fields, the conduit,
etc. All the country was beautiful, the vegetation
luxuriant. At Cambridge station a huge grain elevator
and mill in buff brick — hideous, but impressive. Drove
down to King's. . . . Everyone, porters, dons, bedmakers,
were extraordinarily welcoming — chid me for my
absence, overwhelmed me with kindness. I felt like
coming home. . . .

" On Saturday did little businesses; breakfasted in
Combination Room pleasantly, with fine Victorian plate.
In the afternoon walked about Zion. Saw Queen's, a
fine new chapel — Peterhouse, a beautiful place, but a
stronghold of the Philistines. I like the (Peterhouse)
chapel transparencies now; if only people would have
faith, and keep work as long as it is careful, expensive,
thought out and put up with love. Then in Pembroke
garden, a beautiful, embowered, bird-haunted place.
. . . To Emmanuel, and saw an elegant African black
undergraduate, slim and nimble, playing lawn-tennis
with Englishmen. All these gardens are trim and rich
with flowers, much smarter than they used to be. I
suppose that the married fellows system tends to har-
monise; they seem to give up the gardens much more
to undergraduates, while the little tutors hurry off to
small, new, red-brick houses on the Trumpington road.
The men, too, seem gentler and more decorous than of
old; but I suppose only the mildest are up just
now. . . .

" We went to an out-of-door concert in the new court
(King's); when I remember it, it was a long, high wall
with a kitchen-garden behind it, and a deserted little slip

i90i] THE DIARY OF

of ground like a terrace where snapdragons grew. The
bridge and river more ravishingly beautiful than ever.
I remember so well standing there in a moonlit midnight,
and hearing an owl snore in a hollow tree by the bridge.
To-night a huge high fantasmal building, lit up —
and a pleasing concert, sung by solid and sober-
looking young men. . . . We lounged in silence,
and smoked, the behaviour perfect. Lionel Ford sang
my song, ' Twenty years ago.' I sate in a kind of happy
dream, not regretting the old pleasant, sociable
days. ..."

*' Grosvenor Cluh^ London^ September^. — This morning
I have devoted to papers and this diary. I am well in
health, and undisturbed (for me) by ailments, though I
cannot help dreading the future, and bothering myself
about the little malady that grows and grows — castigatio
mea matutina est.

" But, taking stock generally, I am somewhat cast
down. I have had considerable success in a profession
in which I am not really interested, and I have refused
two big chances. But my motive in accepting such a
post would not be a pure one. I should accept it because
it gave me a position, and a standpoint, and a finger in
the great pie, and dignity with other people, and general
advertisement. People would listen to me and be more
deferential if I were a headmaster, and all that is very
pleasant. Then, too, I should know, if I wished, bigger
people, and I should have things more or less my own
way in my own yard. But I should not accept it from
devotion, or as an earnest reformer, or as a man caring
for extended influence, which he knows he possesses,
or from conviction.

" Then, in literature, I am very ambitious indeed,
though I grow lazier. In fact, I have little doubt
that if I am to break with schoolmastering I must do so
at once — that I shall never settle down to literary work
otherwise, and that I shall inevitably lose the spring, the
zest, the joy of literature. I am losing it; I write less,
with much more difficulty, and have far less impulse to

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1901

write. But I am not rich enough for my modest desires.
And I should be sorry to take up literature and find I
couldn't do it — find myself poor and ineffective, with
no particular place in the world. Schoolmastering at
least gives me this, much as my whole nature now re-
coils against going back, like a squirrel into his rotatory
drum, to plunge into whirling work, of which so much
is absolutely useless. If we turned out our boys know-
ing anything, caring for anything, I should not complain.
But eighty' per cent, leave us ignorant of everything, even
Greek and Latin, hating books, despising knowledge,
admiring athletics, mistaking amiability for character —
and that is what we sweat our brains out to produce. It
is simply deplorable.

" Here is my dilemma: on the one hand a useful life,
which bores me — on the other hand a life which is not
useful, and which would probably bore me still more,
but which I love. And still I hesitate; and what makes
me despise myself still more is that even my hesitation
is not noble-minded — not fearing to sacrifice usefulness,
but mere timidity and habituation: the monkey in the
kettle.

*' Sed tu mecum es; baculus tuus conjortahit me, . . .

*' I say I write less — and yet I have written 20,000
words of this diary, 100 small octavo printed pages, in
a month." .

** Eion, November 3. — I record some of the most vivid
dreams I have ever had. I was sitting in a kind of
saloon-carriage, by the side of a lake. The rail on which
my carriage stood went round the lake; the other dipped
into it. I saw the metals going down into the clear
water, and the waves lapping on the pebbles. I heard
a noise; and at the top of a little heathery hill behind —
the place was a moor — appeared a huge engine, like a
traction engine, coming down at a simply furious pace,
like a dragon, upon me. I saw the blue gleaming
metal of which it was made; it flung out cataracts of
black smoke, but I was not afraid. It dashed into the
water by me, running on the submerged metals, drawing

I90I] THE DIARY OF

a train of red trucks, empty, and simply tore across the
lake, throwing off the water in huge jets over it, the
smoke struggling through the foam, and disappeared
with its train of trucks over a low hill. Then I was in a
marble-paved hall, belonging, I knew, to some university,
with rather a cross portress at a table in the centre. I
could see the dim reflection of ourselves in the floor as we
moved about. Then I was in a garden, playing with
some children, an odd game played with golf balls and
wooden spades : John Sarum in a brown Norfolk jacket.
The garden was neglected and rather provincial, but
jasmine grew profusely. In running to pitch a ball I
saw an odd stone in a garden bed, a piece of crystal,
which I took up, and, rubbing off the dirt, found it a
statuette of a girl riding on a mule, loaded with grapes.
I looked up and saw that E.W.B. had joined the game,
in his cassock. I took it to him, and he smiled and
touched it, and said, * You shall yet return and bring
your grapes with you.' Then he kissed me, and I felt
the slight roughness of his cheek as I used to do as a
child; then he blessed me very solemnly. The dream
faded."

" jE/o^, February 13, 1902. — My work closes in, and
I have had three perfectly disgusting and unbearable
days, shuffling on in hideous impatience and irritability
from one occupation to another, with letters and business
accumulations. ... It is useless to complain; but I will
put down what my day was yesterday — Ash Wednesday
— for the information of posterity.

"I rose about 7: school 7.30. I heard a Virgil
saying-lesson, and the boys did Greek Exercise, while I
made an abstract of some Old Testament history. At
8.30 I went out of school: breakfasted. I ought to have
gone to the Commination Service, but I had such a pile
of letters that I went to my study at 9.15, and wrote,
without stopping, quite savagely, till 10.50, and then
had not finished. School at 11, history; I questioned
on a chapter, and gave a short abstract of all we had done,
trying to knock in the divisions of it. At 12 I came

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1902

out, went to pupil-room, heard the Remove construe
two lessons, looked over Fourth Form exercises and my
Greek Ex. of the morning. Dinner at 2 with the boys,
and wrote letters 2.30 to 3.30. Tatham came and I
walked with him to Upton; back at 4.30. Tried to read
up a translation paper for the evening, but was very weary
and went gaping into school at 5 — a Thucydides lesson,
very dull, and went through the Greek Ex. Came out
and worked at the translation paper and some Latin
prose from 6 to 7. Then took a set of boys in Latin
prose till 7.40, then a set in translation paper till 8.10.
Dressed: went out to Goodhart for some dinner, 8.30.
Came away at 9.40, and went round the house till 10.30.
Then read a little, but weary and dissatisfied. So that
out of sixteen hours I have practically had three in which
I was not in some way professionally employed. I see
that W. Johnson says in his diary that he averaged about
nine hours a day. I don't think it is quite so much as
that now. But I don't think it ought ever to be more
than eight, and Sundays ought to be easier. I do not
think 1 can ever face an Easter half again."

*'' March I. — AVarre came and took my division yes-
terday. We were doing Lysias. He was rosy and
cheerful, and stood by me on the platform. I had been
girding at the attenuated stuff, and he began praising it
for its beaut)' and interest. He taught a little himself,
making the boys construe at sight, and was pleased at
their intelligence. Then he made them a little speech
about good taste in writing, purity of st)'le, avoidance of
humour — saying that youthful humour was often
offensive, and that it might well be written down, if only
— ' there, put your pen through it.' He spoke of his own
sermons, and how after writing a few pages a horror
came over him (I don't wonder) and he struck it all out.
I have not often heard him preach a sermon that would
not have been improved by this process. His greatness
gleamed out through the loose and inconsequent
talk — rambling metaphors, rapid quotations, quite
unintelligible to the boys — like tongues of fire through

I902] THE DIARY OF

smoke. He roared so loud once or twice that the room
rang, and my head began to buzz. Then he expressed
himself as pleased and marched away. We felt flatter
after he had gone. His warm praise of the necessity of
learning to write English interested me: has he any
terrific scheme in his head.'* "

** April 24 (my fortieth birthday) . . . — Now let me
write a little sober survey of my life, as it turns upon the
hinge. It is just half-past six, about which hour I was
born.

" I am fairly happy — full of little plans and ambitions
and interests. But I fear that most of these are very
selfish. I don't think I want to serve; neither do I want
to rule. . . . My face is set away from Eton, and towards
the Meadows of Ease, that delicate place. Should I be
happier.'' A.C.A. says bluntly that I should not, but I
think that only money keeps me back. I have nearly
£"joo a year of my own*, and a pension would make it
;^8oo; so that it could not be imprudent to leave.
Certainly my heart is more and more in writing, and
less and less in teaching or administration. A very
small thing would dislodge me hence. I put aside all
ambition for the headmastership as merely futile. . . .

" And so I enter on a new phase, and I try to survey
the plains of middle age with fortitude and faith. I hope
I may slay some Canaanites. But what good is it to
look forward.'* I am in the hands of God."

" Octohet' 13. — I dare say it is pusillanimous, but I
can't help it. I can't slave on. ... I shall be sorry to
leave the beloved boys ; but the sense of real peace that
this decision has given me is so true and profound that
I hardly doubt I am right thus to decide. I am really
wearing out, and the burden cannot be supported.

" The scouts of the E.C.R.V. were all out along the
river as we walked. We stopped and talked to the merry
Davies. The lock-house has been renewed, and they
are building new red brick cottages, not bad, by

* Most of this was derived from his savings at Eton.
60

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1902

Boveney; the elm lane there is charming, and the dove-
cote. It is a beloved place; but there are no glorified
memories connected with my mastership here — no land-
scapes lit with love-light, or even great and absorbing
friendships: plenty of interest and plenty of life, but
sordid thoughts on the whole, knit up with self: some
temperate and kindly hienveiUances.

" W. Johnson says that the passions, the imprudences,
are the things that one is glad and proud of afterwards.
I wonder if this is true? I have no means of knowing.

" My growing decision has drawn a veil between
Eton and me. I shall try to be kindly and generous
and sweet-tempered while I stay, and leave nothing but
friends — not rage or rhetoricise or grumble or grunt. I
never was patient — never could do tiresome work
because it was right, as one eats mutton. But I tried
always, each time, to think it interesting, to think it
was oysters and champagne; and I often succeeded —
it was imported novelty that carried me through.

** I talked and taught well to-day, and worked very
easily, though with loathing. But I had an interior
peace."

And so he resolved to send in his resignation —
not immediately, but as soon as a good occasion
might present itself. Meanwhile, whatever he may
say of his failure to WTite as easily as he used, his
literary work was in fact extending, widening its
scope, finding fresh opportunities at a great rate.
The Lije of Archbishop Benson had been published in
1899, and also in the same year a collection of the
lives of Eton worthies. Fasti Etonenses. Since then
he had produced another volume of poems, and a book
in which his experience in his profession was very
attractively reviewed and presented. The Schoolmaster.
And he was already adventuring in new regions. The
stories of The Hill of Trouble^ and a kindred volume
or two that soon followed, were written about this
time ; and now too he began (with The House of Quiet)
that long line of confidentially reflective and anecdotal

I902] THE DIARY OF

books that were presently to enjoy so great and facile
a success. Moreover there soon came, perhaps more
fortunately, a commission to write the volume on
D. G. Rossetti for the series of English Men of
Letters, a very congenial piece of work. It was clear,
then, that he could change his profession whenever
he chose, with no fear of finding himself at a loss.

And it had now struck him that he might settle at
Cambridge. It has been seen how he paid a visit to
his old college, after long years of absence; and he
enjoyed it so well that he at once decided — as he
usually did decide, wherever he went — to acquire a
house in the neighbourhood and live there for the rest
of his days. Before long he had found and taken his
house, the Old Granary, beyond Silver Street bridge;
and the house in Windsor was forgotten as he promptly
rearranged his prospect and planned a life of retire-
ment at Cambridge. Perhaps it would have surprised
him at the time to be told that he really was to live
there, as he told himself, for the rest of his days: not
indeed for long at the Old Granary, and by no means
in retirement, but at Cambridge to the end.

However, there was still another year, 1903, at
Eton, the year which was at length to bring hesitation
to an end by an entirely unexpected stroke. It began
in all the old vexation of spirit under the burden of
the " system," and many a page of his diary might be
added to those already given in which his exasperation
breaks out and overflows. The refrain of them all is
the same — the wasteful and wearisome routine, so ill
contrived that it exhausts the patience of everybody
and benefits none; and whether his lament was
justified, whether his account of the results which the
system yielded or failed to yield was a fair one, it is
not for me to say; but it is obvious that a man who
thought as he did on the matter could only feel
an " interior peace " as he looked forward to his
departure.

And now, for a complete change from the irrita-
tions of the working-day, let him describe a visit

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1903

that he paid this spring at Putney, a visit arising
out of a correspondence on Rossetti with Rossetti's
friend.

" April 4, 1903. — I left my house on a bicycle about
twelve, and rushed up town after an unsatisfactory
morning of odds and ends. I had been received by
Mr. Watts-Dunton with a great amount of epistolatory
ceremony, many courteous letters arranging my visit,
written by a secretary. The day was dark and gloomy.
I got to Putney about 1.15, and walked into the street.
I asked my way to the house, expecting it to stand high
up. I was in a very common suburban street, with
omnibuses and cabs — and two rows of semi-detached
houses going up the gentle acclivity of the hill. I
suddenly saw I was standing opposite the house, a per-
fectly commonplace, bow-windowed, yellow-brick house,
with a few shrubs in the tiny garden. I went up to the
door, and was at once taken in by the maid. The house
was redolent of cooking, dark, not very clean-looking,
but comfortable enough, the walls crowded everywhere
with pictures, mostly Rossetti's designs in pen-and-ink
or chalk. I was taken into a dining-room on the right,
looking out at the back. To the left the tall backs of
yellow-brick houses : the gardens full of orchard trees in
bloom: a little garden lay beneath with a small yew hedge
and a statue of a nymph, rather smoke-stained: some tall
elms in the background.

" Mr. Watts-Dunton came out and greeted me with
great cordiality. He seemed surprised at my size, as
I was similarly surprised at his — I had not remembered
he was so small. He was oddly dressed in waistcoat and
trousers of some greenish cloth, and with a large heavy
blue frock-coat, too big for him, with long cuffs. He
was rather bald, with his hair grown thick and long, and
a huge moustache which concealed a small chin. He
had lost his teeth since I last saw him, and looked an old
man, though healthily bronzed and with firm small hands.
After a compliment or two he took me upstairs. A pair
of elastic-sided boots lay outside a door — the passage

1903] THE DIARY OF

thickly carpeted and pictures everywhere. We went
quickly in, the room being over the dining-room.

" There stood before me a little, pale, rather don-like
man, quite bald, with a huge head and dome-like fore-
head, a ragged red beard in odd whisks, a small aquiline
red nose. He looked supremely shy, but received me
with a distinguished courtesy, drumming on the ground
with his foot, and uttering strange little whistling noises.
He seemed very deaf. The room was crammed with
books: bookcases all about — a great sofa entirely filled
with stacked books— books on the table. He bowed me
to a chair — ' Will you sit.f* ' On the fender was a pair
of brown socks. Watts-Dunton said to me, ' He has
just come in from one of his long walks ' — and took up
the socks and put them behind the coal-scuttle. * Stay! '
said Swinburne, and took them out carefully, holding
them in his hand: ' They are drying.' Watts-Dunton
murmured something about his fearing they would get
scorched, and we sate down. Swinburne sate down,
concealing his feet behind a chair, and proceeded with
strange motions to put the socks on out of sight. * He
seems to be changing them,' said Watts-Dunton.
Swinburne said nothing, but continued to whistle and
drum. Then he rose and bowed me down to lunch,
throwing the window open.

" We went down and solemnly seated ourselves,
Watts-Dunton at the head, back to the light, Swinburne
opposite to me. We had soup, chickens, many sweets,
plovers' eggs. Swinburne had a bottle of beer, which he
drank. He was rather tremulous with his hands, and
clumsy. At first he said nothing, but gazed at intervals
out of the window with a mild blue eye and a happy sort
of look. Watts-Dunton and I talked gravely, he
mumbling his food with difficulty. When he thought
that Swinburne was sufficiently refreshed he drew him
gracefully into the conversation. I could not make
Swinburne hear, but Watts-Dunton did so without
difficulty. . . . He seemed content to be silent, and I was
struck with his great courtesy, especially to Watts-
Dunton — this was very touching. Watts-Dunton made

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1903

some criticism on Scott (Swinburne having said that The
Bride oj Lammcrmoor was a -perfect story) — about the
necessit}' when Scott became bookish of translating him
into patois. ' Very beautiful and just,' said Swinburne,
looking affectionately and gratefully at Watts-Dunton;
* I have never heard that before, and it is just; you must
put that down.' Watts-Dunton smiled and bowed.
Later on Watts-Dunton attributed some opinion to
Rossetti: 'Gabriel thought — ' etc. Swinburne smiled,
and said, ' I have often heard you say that, but ' (he
turned smiling to me) ' Mr. Benson, there is no truth in
it. Rossetti had no opinions when I first knew him on
Chatterton and many other subjects, and our friend
here had merely to say a thing to him, and it was
absolutely adopted and fixed in the firmament.*
Watts-Dunton stroked Swinburne's small pink hand,
which lay on the table, and Swinburne gave a pleased
schoolboy smile.

" Lunch being over, Swinburne looked revived, and
talked away merrily; he bowed me out of the room with
ceremony. Watts-Dunton seemed to wish me to stay,
and Swinburne looked concerned, drew nearer to him,
and said, ' Mr. Benson must come and sit a little in my
room '; so we went up. Swinburne began pulling down
book after book, and showed them to me, talking
delightfully. As he became more assured he talked
rhetorically; he has a full, firm, beautiful pronunciation,
and talks like one of his books ; occasionally his voice went
into a little squeak. He suddenly rose, and went and
drank some medicine in a corner. He had on an odd black
tail-coat, a greenish waistcoat, slippers, low white collar,
made-up tie — very shabby indeed. There was an odd,
bitter, bookish scent about the room, which hung, I
noticed, about him too. He talked a little about Eton
and Warre, saying, ' He sate next me many a half, and
he was a good friend of mine.'

" Then Watts-Dunton proposed that I should go; but
Swinburne said, half timidly, * I hope there is time just
to show Mr. Benson one of these scenes.' * Well, one
scene,* said Watts-Dunton, ' but we have a lot of business

1903] THE DIARY OF

to talk — ^you read it to him.* He took the book I was
holding — the Arden play — and read very finely and
dramatically, with splendid inflections, a fine scene.
His little feet kicked spasmodically under his chair, and
he drummed on the table. He was pleased at my
pleasure — and then took up some miracle plays, and told
me a long story of the Annunciation of the Nativity —
the sheep-stealer, called Mack, who steals a sheep and
puts it into the child's cradle; the shepherd comes to
find it and laughs: then the angel appears. 'Do you
think Mr. Benson will be shocked if I show him what
Cain says } ' he said, and showed me, giggling, a piece of
ancient schoolboy coarseness. Watts-Dunton smiled
indulgently; then at last he took me away. Swinburne
shook hands with great cordiality, a winning, shy kind of
a smile lighting up his pale eyes. Watts-Dunton led me
off, saying, ' I like him to get a good siesta; he is such an
excitable fellow; he is like a schoolboy — unfailing animal
spirits, always pleased with everything; but he has to
take care.' He was much amused at Swinburne asking
me if I was his contemporary at Eton.

** I was somehow tremendously touched by these two
old fellows living together (Swinburne must be 66,
Watts-Dunton about 72) and paying each other these
romantic compliments and displaying distinguished con-
sideration, as though the world was young. I imagine
that the secret of Watts-Dunton's influence is that he is
ready to take all the trouble off^ the shoulders of
these eminent men— that he is very sedulous, com-
plimentary, gentle — and that he is at the same time just
enough of an egotist to require and draw out some
sympathy. . . .

*' Watts-Dunton kept all through our long talk (we
sate from 2.30 to 5) reverting to himself: how he was the
only man not dominated by Rossetti: how dogs wouldn't
bite him: how as a boy at school he dominated all the
school, so that no boy ever got a hamper without bringing
it to him to choose what he liked best (he called it a very
big fashionable private school): how the boys would have
carried him about all day on their shoulders if he had

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1903

desired it : and how no edict of the masters would have
availed, if he had given contrary orders.

" He sighed heavily at one time and said that he
himself had not done what he ought to have done in
literature. At this I poured in a good deal of rather
rancid oil and ginger-wine. He smiled indulgently and
deprecatingly. He then said that the charge of Rossetti
had been very anxious — the stratagems to reduce chloral,
the dancing attendance on his whims; but he added, ' In
his friendship and the friendship of Swinburne I find
my consolation.* This I did not think sincerely said.

" * Swinburne,' he said several times over, * is a mere
boy still, and must be treated like one — a simple school-
boy, full of hasty impulses and generous thoughts —
like April showers.* He added, ' His mental power
grows stronger every year — everybody's does. He is
now a pure and simple improvisatore.*

" Watts-Dunton sipped a little whiskey-and-water and
smoked a cigarette. He sometimes reclined in an arm-
chair, sometimes came and sate near me. I sate in a
great carved chair of Rossetti's (very fine — Indian),
facing the light. There were fine pictures everywhere;
a most interesting one of Rossetti reading poetry to
Watts-Dunton in the Green Room at 16 Cheyne Walk,
by Dunn (he gave me a reproduction of this); a Shakes-
peare in a heavy frame; beautiful witches of Rossetti's,
in crayons, pale red, peeping out of great gold frames.
Outside were the white orchard blooms and trees, and I
arranged myself so that I could see no house-backs —
and we might have been at Kelmscott. . , .

" I had intended to go earlier, but we talked on;
occasionally he went to his secretaries. Before I went
we had some tea; and then he brought in two little
framed pictures (Rossetti in the Green Room, and
Kelmscott), prepared for his illustrated Aylv:in^ and the
illustrated edition of AyliL-in itself, and gave them to me,
with many expressions of kindness and cordial offers of
help. ' Come and see me,' he said; ' don't write. My
correspondence is a simple curse. I have thirty letters
a post.' (I wonder what about?) He wrote my name

1903] THE DIARY OF

in the book. He talked a good deal about Lord de
Tabley, or rather a good deal of the influence he had
over de Tabley!

" I can't understand this enigma — how this egotistical,
ill-bred little man can have established such relations
with Rossetti and Swinburne. There must be some-
thing fine about him — and his extraordinary kindness is
perhaps the reason; but his talk, his personal habits,
and his egotism would grate on me at every hour of the
day. And yet, ' He is a hero of friendship,' said
Rossetti.

" I went out with my precious parcel — back by train
in driving rain to Windsor."

The midsummer half wore away at Eton, and still
he had not found the right moment or the conclusive
reason for fixing the date of his resignation. And
now at last it was decided for him.

'' Etoriy July 24, 1903. — A mysterious wire from
Esher to ask me to come over to Orchard Lea — the
King wished him to speak to me on a matter of import-
ance! It must be that Lord Churchill wants me to
take his boy next year. ..."

" July 25. — Worked hard with much impatience,
and biked over to Orchard Lea. Could not find a
front-door; but eventually left my bike by an iron gate,
and, advancing, rang at a small door. I was shown in
through a nice dark hall, and found Lady Esher, very
good-natured and friendly; Esher in the garden in a sum-
mer-house, airily dressed, reading, with his son beside
him, in a Guards' tie, also reading. Lady Esher would
have settled down for a talk, but E. said, ' I am going to
take him for a talk.'

" The pretty garden lay all before us, with its shady
walks and banks and terraces; in the midst a huge bed
of red roses, just crumbling to their fall; to the left an
alley down which I have often peered from the road;
beyond, quiet fields and woods. In the whole of the

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1903

long talk that followed my thoughts and recollections
are curiously knit with the colours and textures of
flowers in the beds we paced past.

" He made me a statement at once, with a kind of
smile, yet holding it back for effect. The King was
going to bring out the correspondence and letters of
Queen Victoria (1836 — 1861), and would I edit it with
him (Esher)? I was to be sounded, and then offered it.
He had seen the Archbishop, who entirely approved.

" Of course I had no real doubt. Here am I, crushed
with work at Eton, hardly strong enough to wriggle out,
and yet with no motive to go at any particular minute.
Suddenly in the middle of all my discontent and
irritability a door is silently and swiftly opened to me.
In the middle of this quiet sunny garden, full of sweet
scents and roses, I am suddenly offered the task of
writing or editing one of the most interesting books of
the day— of the century. I have waited long for some
indication — and was there ever a clearer leading?

" He told me many details. ... I asked for a little
time, decorously to decide; but all the time my heart
told me I had decided already, or rather that it had been
decided. . . .

" I had a bad night — and no wonder; shirked chapel,
and then wrote two letters, one to Warre, resigning as
simply as I could, and one to Esher, accepting."

''August 13. — . . . The warmth and affection of
the letters I get about Eton fairly astound me. It is
difficult not to pose in writing about this, but I will
say exactly what is in my mind. I felt myself at Eton
to be rather popular, knowing a few masters well, my
opinion rather deferred to by these few; but living a
very quiet, and increasingly quiet life, absorbed in my
own thoughts and in my own work. But I get a series
of jeremiads; Eton won't be the same place, disastrous
news, a subject too painful to talk about; the dear
Rawlins says that he can't keep up a show of mirth with
his guests, and that it has been a horrible blow to him, as
he depended on me for everything. Of course a good

1903] THE DIARY OF

deal of this is affection generously expressed. . . . But,
making all allowances, there is a residue of praise which
fairly astonishes me, and which won't make me conceited,
because I don't realise or believe it. Each letter pushes
me up on a pedestal for a few minutes; but I soon get
down again, and go scrambling on as usual. . . .

" I sent off all my circulars in the evening — writing
.a few words on each, or a letter. It is melancholy work,
and I hate dropping all these beloved boys and their
destinies; but I can't do otherwise. I should be crushed
out of shape by the work at Eton. I would gladly
continue to keep a house and do some teaching, or
teach alone; but the whole burden I can bear no more.
Besides, I have no call to schoolmastering. The wonder
is that, caring for it so little in many ways, I do it as
well as I do."

" September 27. — A dreadful night of dreams —
voyages on wide blue waters, interspersed with many
interviews with the Prince Consort. In one of these we
were by a tea-table— we two alone. He helped himself
liberally to tea, cake, etc.; then he turned to me, and
said, ' You observe that I offer you no tea, Mr. Benson.'
I said, * Yes, sir.' ' The reason is that I am forbidden
by etiquette to do so, and would to God I could alter this 1 *
He was overcome with emotion, but finished his tea,
after which a grave man came and served me with
some ceremony."

So his departure was announced for the end of this
year, 1903. He invited all his " old boys " as usual
to a house-dinner at Eton in November; and on this
occasion, the last and largest of our annual assemblies,
we did our best to let him see that we knew what we
owed him. A few words from his account of the
evening (November 14) may forgivably be quoted:

" I thought what nice good sensible amiable boys they
all were — of the best sort; unaffected, affectionate, simple,
and yet with plenty of quiet savoir faire. They are just

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1903

the sort of boys I should have desired them to be; and
I suppose one's desire, often invoked, tells, in spite of
all one's incompetence."

'* December 8. — In the evening I had my last Pri-
vate. I examined the boys in history. They did very
well. As they filed out I sate wondering — the lights
bright, and a big fire blazing, flickering over the benches
and the maps, and the inky forms, and the old books that
I have known so long. How clear to me the picture of
my tutor is, and the pupil-room, and the gaslight — it is
strange to me to think that I too am part of the memory-
pictures of some boys.

" Well, I have generally liked my Private, when I
have once begun, though generally very unwilling to go
down. ... I feel a little tearful at the idea of the work
and the briskness and the young life all about — and that
all over; but I don't for one instant repent, and I would
not alter my decision for one second, even if I could.
The time has come naturally, and I must add very hap-
pily and sweetly to an end; the boys have been at their
very best this half — sweet-tempered, considerate, good.
And I have not slackened steam the least, but have
bucketed on to the ver)' end. ..."

'* December 16. — All the morning I worked; boys
dropped in to say good-bye. But the joy of the holidays
was too much for them, and I would not have it
otherwise. . . .

*' Then Alec Cadogan dropped in and came to lunch;
and by 2 all the boys were gone. Then I walked with
the Provost at his request; he was very pleasant and
fatherly. . . .

" I came back; and it struck very chill on my heart,
I confess, to see my hall and stairs all dismantled — the
cases in the dining-room — the old life all breaking up
and going. Well, it has been a happy time — happier
and happier, in many ways. And most of all I thank
God for giving a very timid, feeble and weak-minded
person the chance of doing a little useful work. . . .

1903] ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

" I found a despatch-box and a note from Rawlins
that rather broke my heart. . . . Then Edward Ryle came,
in tears, to say good-bye. That is a kind heart. Now
I write these last few lines, with all the trampling and
din of the packers downstairs. But I am going to dine
with Tatham, and -shall try to be cheerful. I am a
curious mixture of sensitiveness and hardness. There
seem to be watertight doors in my mind v/hich I can shut,
but only on great occasions; I am dimly conscious that
all is not well within, but I can talk and be interested and
jest in the furthest room.

** And anyhow, God bless Eton, and the dear boys,
and my old comrades here — and never mind me! I
think I do care more that things should go well here,
and that the boys should be pure-minded and public-
spirited, than anything else. I wish they could learn
something too. But that will be done next, and I shall
rejoice with all my heart."

Ill
1904

He exulted in the novelty of a holiday with no return
to school at the end of it. He soon took possession
of his house at Cambridge, the Old Granary, wedged
between road and river, its windows overhanging the
mill-pool and the melodious weir and the pasture
of Sheep's Green; and here he began to renew his
relations with the place that he had neglected for so long.
It was a sudden change, no doubt, from his position
and authority and much-befriended state at Eton — to
Cambridge, where indeed he had old friends not a
few, and where all doors at once flew open to welcome
him, but where as yet he had no hand in the business
and no part of his own in the life of the university.
It was new and strange to find himself a private and
irresponsible person; but it was the condition that he
had desired from afar, and for the present he liked it
very well. Never at any moment, now or later, had
he the faintest twinge of regret for the life that he had
abandoned; the task of the schoolmaster dropped off
him as easily as a load from his back, and he went
forward, rejoicing in his freedom.

It was still at Eton, however, not at Cambridge,
that he spent the greater part of 1904. He set to
work without delay upon the correspondence of Queen
Victoria; and for this it was necessary at first to stay
within reach of Windsor Castle, where the vast col-
lection of papers to be examined was stored in the
Round Tower. He lodged accordingly with Ainger,
who had now resigned his mastership and was livmg

1904] THE DIARY OF

in the house, Mustians, that he had built for himself
at Eton. Here Arthur Benson spent some months
in great content. The mornings he passed in con-
suming his work in the Round Tower, fastening upon
it in a rage of concentration that brought him to the
end of his scrutiny of the papers before the year was
out; and after the morning his time was his own, and
now as never before he could enjoy Eton with a mind
unburdened. Mustians was the most sociable of
houses, always open in hospitality to the masters and
the boys of the school. In these conditions Eton
was agreeable indeed; and with the opportunity of
leisure he could find many new friends among the
boys — of whom Edward Horner should especially be
named, and Julian Grenfell; friends of a generation
on which the war was to fall unsparingly, so that hardly
one of them now survives. And with all these interests
to make the year a notable one, there was still room
for more. He edited the Queen's letters with one
hand, and under the other his own literary work ran
forward unchecked; for in this year he wrote the
exceedingly popular Upton Letters, and also a volume
on Edward FitzGerald, his second contribution to the
series already mentioned.

Between whiles he returned when he could to
Cambridge; and there one day, early in the year,
strolling through the Backs and by the river, he chanced
to turn into the court of Magdalene, and was greatly
struck by the charm of that secluded little college,
unfamiliar to him. The mastership was vacant at the
time, and the future of Magdalene none too promising,
for the college was small and poor; and he wrote that
evening in his diary of the wish he had felt, standing
in the court, that good days might be in store for
it — and even that he might himself have had a hand in
helping it to flourish. He remembered his wish when
a little later the name of the new Master of
Magdalene was declared. It was his old friend,
Stuart Donaldson, of Eton; and within a few months
Donaldson had proposed to the college, and the

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

college had unanimously agreed, that a fellowship
should be offered to Arthur Benson. Nothing could
have been more welcome; it was exactly the kind of
position that he had begun to desire at Cambridge,
and he accepted the offer with deep satisfaction.
Already in this year he had refused more than one
invitation of note from other universities, and now
indeed he could feel that he was justified. As a
Fellow of Magdalene he could look forward to a life
of work and companionship entirely to his mind;
he only hoped that he might be left to enjoy it in
peace.

And it happened that immediately after his installa-
tion at Magdalene in the autumn, news came from
Eton that disturbed his peace not a little. Warre's
resignation of the headmastership was announced; and
so all the old doubts and questions were let loose again,
and soon they would have to be faced in earnest. It
was an unlucky moment. Not only had this attrac-
tive prospect just opened at Cambridge, but the har-
mony of his days at Eton was now disturbed by a
controversy, a clash of opinion in which he bore a
leading and an outspoken part. In educational
matters he was a keen " reformer," which naturally
meant that on one side he was a bold pioneer, on the
other a rash innovator; and in a dispute which had
arisen at Eton — not connected with the headmaster-
ship — strong support of his views on one side had
met, not strangely, with strong opposition on the
other. Perhaps he was inclined to make a personal
matter of a simple attack upon his opinions; but
anyhow he slipped into a mood of displeasure with
Eton and its ways, or a habit rather than a mood, which
did not brighten the thought of returning to Eton as
headmaster. On one point he was quite decided,
and remained so; he would not come forward as a
candidate for the post. And if nevertheless it was
offered him, what then? He preferred to leave the
question with a sincere hope that the offer would not
be made.

1904] THE DIARY OF

" Eton^ February 12. — I went up to the Castle and met
the pleasant Miles, the Inspector. . . . They had
prepared me a great bedroom as well as a sitting-room, but
I altered that, and took a small room adjoining the sitting-
room. The interior of the Tower is most quaint and in-
teresting— odd passages, with oak arches, and a sort of
open place in the centre, all hung with pictures of
Prussian and English soldiers, as in the passage down to
the Castle. I am to approach it by the other stairs. But
this is inconvenient as the place is locked up to an extent
I had not realized, and I have no key — I must write to
Esher about this.

" My own room is a big room, hung with Hogarth
engravings and good furniture — a white chair with pink
satin on wheels was used by the Queen. I did not use
the room to-day as it was not ready, but worked in the strong-
room, and went through an interesting lot of Melbourne's
letters — beginning with one on the morning of the access-
ion. His writing is very hard to read. It was odd to sit in
this big room, all surrounded with shelves, with the deep
embrasure full of guns. The wind roared and the rain
lashed the window. I was amused and happy.

'* I went down about 1.30 — lunched and walked with
A.C.A. We went through, just as everyone was hurry-
ing into school — * and I not there 1 * But I must not be
silly about this, or let myself feel that the busy life was a
really happy one — it was terribly irksome at the end and
for a long time.

" The boys are very nice and greet me with great
warmth. Wedined with Goodhart. This again was rather
a nightmare, in my own room, with my old furniture,
and my own servants. G. was in much pain, I saw,
but got through gallantly. He was not well enough to go
into the House — so I just went round as in the old days;
and I confess that this was very painful indeed, though I
hope I did not show it. I did not know I had so much
heart; and what I had was * wae.* But it is better to
get things over at once and not to shirk them. Mrs.
James wept to see me. So did Martin on meeting me
in the street. ..."

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

** Cambridge^ April 8. — Such a batch of interesting
letters.

" Stuart Donaldson is Master of Magdalene ! — I could
really envy him this. I have thought very tenderly ot
the poor little College — so beautiful and stately and
venerable, and yet so out of elbows and out of heart. I
made a prayer that I might be perhaps allowed to raise
her up. There are very few posts in England I desire;
but this is one — I should like a small, definite, thorough
job to do. I don't suppose I should like it at all really —
I shouldn't like stiff Fellows, and feeble, querulous
undergraduates, and fading revenues; and then the
endless hospitality and the probability of having to take
a lot of College work — and the Vice-Chancellorship —
it would not really suit me in the least; yet I would have
taken it with courage and desire — probably from the
wrong motives. Anyhow I am not offered it (though I
thought from a chance remark the other day that I
might be).

" Well, Donald has taken it; and he is an ideal person.
He is kind, simple, hospitable — his wife is exactly in the
right place. They are well-off. He is industrious; the
undergrads will adore him; he will coach the boat, he will
do everything I could not do, and lift the place on his
shoulders. All that is wanted is that he should go and
laugh in the courts, once in each, and the place will
recover heart at once. He wrote me a very affectionate
letter. ..."

For an Easter holiday he chose, as usual, a country
inn, this time the Lygon Arms at Broadway, with
H. F. W. Tatham for his companion. The following
account of one of his days of exploration is typical
of very many, in this and other years.

** Broadway, April 18. — A day of settled summer
weather — cool easterly breeze and a hot sun. I dreamt
furiously, and rose irritable. We rode to Hinton, start-
ing 10.45. ^^ ^^ ^^ unimpressive road, and distant
views were all blurred in haze. But at Hinton itself we

1904] THE DIARY OF

found a beautiful old gateway leading to a manor, and a
rather dull little over-restored church; but such a quiet
out-of-the-world place. On getting off at the station
found myself hot and slack; a pleasant, rather loquacious,
young porter, with Birmingham manners. Train to
Ashchurch, a mysterious junction, where three lines
meet, and where one line goes across another almost at
right angles. You can see from Ashchurch station a
huge length of line — five miles, I should say, at least,
quite straight. The old church looks on with
melancholy over the roofs of farm buildings. Then
to Gloucester; and rode in to the Cathedral through a
murky, commercial-looking sort of town, of chimneys,
and yards with piles of timber, and gasworks and ugly
rows of red-brick houses. Then on turning into
College Green, or whatever they call it, all is peace; and
that exquisite Cathedral is surrounded by these quiet
houses of infinite variety. Many of them red-brick
Georgian places — a couple of thin-legged gaitered
ecclesiastics, one in shovel-hat, one in square cap, were
walking briskly up and down the path of the Chapter
garden. We went in, strolled about, read inscriptions,
stared at statues. There is a Jenner^ which, though of
white marble, tends to convey the impression that he had
a heavy cold and a red nose. There are two angels
apparently squabbling over a medallion, on which is
depicted a very bluff and fierce old man in high
collars. . . .

" I came here with Papa twenty-five or twenty-six
years ago, and it is odd how little of the detail I can
remember. We put up at the Bell. He had no sense
of comfort, and we sate miserably in a pokey inn draw-
ing-room with three frozen females — and then we had
prayers in his bedroom and said vespers, I think, at great
length — the chambermaid coming in in the middle, a
grief to me. Papa always felt the need of economy at an
inn — had a small bottle of claret, out of which we each
had one glass, and then it was corked up for next night.
He would have liked to be comfortable, but didn't know
how, I think — his fear of waste was so strong. I

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

remember wandering about the first evening and finding
a shockingly profiine practice going on in a strikingly
beautiful little church near the Cathedral. I don't
remember much else except his fearful avoidance of all
resident dignitaries and his horror of being possibly
involved insocial claims — as if an English Bishop in a
shovel-hat could wander for days about a Cathedral
close, and no civilities offered him!

" We went round [to-day] with an old, very pompous
and tiresome verger, who had got his lesson by heart,
and could answer no question outside of it. I don't
want to be taken round, and lectured. I want to wander
about, ask questions, and be just shown interesting
things if 1 fail to notice them for myself.

*' What impressed me most of all were three tombs.
Poor Edward II, looking so smooth and handsome and
weak, with his delicate nose and eyes, and his carefully
curled beard. Then OsriCy a grim old Saxon, with a
shaven upper lip and archaic beard, like a dissenting
grocer. Then a noble (fourteenth century) wooden
painted figure of Robert, Duke of Normandy, in mail,
with a red mantle, as if starting up from sleep.

" I like the organ and the close screen ; but the stalls are
poor — and they have put in weak Gothic desks and a feeble
little throne, like a Punch and Judy show, and put the fine
Jacobean woodwork into the nave, while upstairs are a few
splendid Corinthian columns and carved panels of fruit and
flowers of a destroyed baldacchino. Heart-breaking!

" Mr. Kempe* is everyzvhere. I really begin to
hate his glass; the same simpering faces everywhere. It
seems to me that he has entirely crystallised into a tra-
dition, and is simply throwing out glass on the same lines
without the slightest thought or intellectual ardour. . . .
The Lady Chapel is delicious, with its coloured ray and
its many lines — and its galleried chantries high up. We
visited Bishop Benson's grave put away in a gallery —
and then to fill up the cup of my happiness, someone,
quite unskilled, came and practised on the organ; the

• Mr. C. E. Kempe, the distinguished artist of church-decoration, was a
friend and neighbour of the Bensons in Sussex. He died in 1907.

1904] THE DIARY OF

music came to me like a heavenly manna — music just
fills up the impression one wants from a great noble
building like that; sight is satisfied, and hearing still
athirst. The rolling of the pedals, the shrill principals
echoing in the roof seemed to me not sound, but almost
some sweet and tangible potion. We loitered about,
looking at houses, went through these splendid cloisters,
still all fitted for active and stately life; then we rode off
through the sunny flat to Cheltenham — the wind some-
what against us — but the bluffs of the Cotswolds looking
very fine on the horizon — a church crowning a hill on
the right, which rose very steeply out of the green flat.
As we neared Cheltenham began to meet odious leisurely
persons, male and female, riding together, conscious of
great social superiority.

" Cheltenham is a terrible place; its size, its respect-
ability, its boulevards, its rows of good houses, its
generally townified air, make it insupportable — yet the
bleak hills look over the house-roofs. We turned into
one street and could have believed ourselves in a foreign
town — a bright broad place of white houses, with an
avenue of planes — a string-band playing, little Victorias
plying about, children with sunhats, a chattering crowd.
It was rather pleasant. . . .

"... Then we began to ascend Cleeve Hill. Passed a
very charming old red-brick farm among walnuts half-
way up; but new houses are perching themselves every-
where, like foul birds of prey. Still the view is noble —
a huge wide-watered plain, full of fields, hamlets, woods
and streams for miles, ending in shadowy hills. The haze
dimmed and gilded it all. Gloucester tower stood out
black and dark. The Hill itself quite wild and down-
like at the top. But there were trams ascending and
descending, elderly military men taking constitutionals
— wayside restaurants with people having tea, young
people sporting upon the grass-grown downs. We
reached the top, with its four cross-roads, and in a
moment were in silence and ancient rustic peace — not a
soul to be seen; but Winchcombe 800 feet below, and
Sudeley Castle in its woods.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

** Two little things I noticed in Cheltenham which I
must record; one a complacent, red-faced, flourishing-
looking old gentleman, apparently in bed, at an upper
window open to the street, suffering, I suppose, from
gout, and looking most benevolently about him. The
other, a very different kind of invalid, pale, worn, sunken
over the temples, with lank hair; driving with his mother
— he was quite a young man — she, looking so tenderly
at him, said something as we passed — he frowned and
shook his head. He looked afraid.

" We rode quickly through Winchcombe, by familiar
roads, and were soon comfortably at home. ..."

** London^ April 29. — I found Childers* [at the
Athenasum] and we arranged details of work. We then
dined quietly, and went to smoking-room. There
entered Henry James, Thomas Hardy and another, an
owlish man, lantern-jawed and bald, with a mildness of
demeanour which I disliked, but which I am conscious
that I am apt to assume, when shy.

" I took H J. to a secluded seat, and we had a talk.
... I questioned him about his ways of work. He
admitted that he worked every day, dictated every morn-
ing, and began a new book the instant the old one was
finished. He said it was his only chance because he
worked so slowly, and excised so much. I asked him
when the inception and design of a new book was formed;
and he gave no satisfactory answer to this except to roll
his eyes, to wave his hand about, to pat my knee and to

say, ' It's all about^ it's about it's in the air it,

so to speak, follows me and dogs me.' Then Hardy came
up and sate down the other side of me. I make it a rule
never to introduce myself to the notice of distinguished
men, unless they recognise me; Hardy had looked
at me, then looked away, suffused by a misty smile, and
I presently gathered that this was a recognition — he
seemed hurt by my not speaking to him. . . . Then we
had an odd triangular talk. Hardy could not hear what

• His old friend and contemporary, H. R. E. Childers (who died in 1912),
w&s now associated with him in the work on Queen Victoria's correspondence.

1904] THE DIARY OF

H.J. said, nor H.J. what Hardy said; and I had to try and
keep the ball going. I felt like Alice between the two
Queens. Hardytalkedrather interestingly of Newman. . . .
He said very firmly that N. was no logician; that the
Apologia was simply a poet's work, with a kind of lattice-
work of logic in places to screen the poetry. We talked
of Maxime Du Camp and Flaubert, and H.J. delivered
himself very oracularly on the latter. Then Hardy went
away wearily and kindly. Then H.J. and I talked of
Howard's Belchamber* H.J. said that it was a good
idea, a good situation. ' He kindly read it to me; and we
approached the denouement in a pleasant Thackerayan
manner — and then it was suddenly all at an end.
He had had his chance and he had made nothing of it.
Good Heavens, I said to myself, he has made nothing of
it! I tried, with a thousand subterfuges and doublings,
such as one uses with the work of a friend, to indicate
this. I hinted that the interest of the situation was not
the experiences — which were dull and shabby and
disagreeable enough in all conscience, and not disguised
by the aristocratic atmosphere — not the experiences^ but
the effect of the fall of wave after disastrous wave upon
Sainty's soul — if one can use the expression for such a
spark of quality as was inside the poor rat — that was the
interest, and I said to myself, " Good God, why this
chronicle, if it is a mere passage, a mere ante-chamber,
and leads to nothing." '

" I think I have got this marvellous tirade nearly
correct. ..."

" Eton, May 9 ... In the evening we dined with
Warre. ... I sate next Warre, who was very pathetic.
He was very kind in manner; he led me down to dinner
with his arm in mine; and I did love him; but he struck
me as ill and weak and worn out, without spring or
enthusiasm, indolent and rather sad. He complained
of not feeling well, he drank a green medicine during
dinner. He said he was getting deaf; he was silent;
and for all his strength and full-bloodedness he looked

* Howard Sturgis's novel, Belchamber, had just then appeared.
82

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

haggard. After dinner he led me away and gave me a
leaving-book — a Gray. He had written my name in it,
and I thought had prepared a little speech to make me;
but he stood dumb and embarrassed, holding the book
in his big hands. Then he suddenly put it into mine,
and I saw his eyes were full of tears; he shook my hand
silently — and I confess it moved me inexpressibly. This
big, strong, successful man, with all his work and
vigour — and holding on in this melancholy way to work
he cannot do. But I felt nothing but pity and affec-
tion. Then he said, ' I look forward to your having a
long, useful and happy life — and sometimes, when I am
gone — meminisse met.' I could not speak; and we came
back to the drawing-room; Mrs. Foljambe played some
sweet little soft tunes — Norwegian — and Warre asked
for an old piece, which he said had often composed him;
then we settled down into dulness again until we went
away. But I felt as if I had received somehow a
patriarchal blessing. ..."

*' Etorij August 4. — I worked like a black at the Castle
and have sent off 167 slips. . . .

" Horribly and detestably hot. I went out for a
bicycle ride and was caught in the rain. I stood for
awhile in shelter at the gate of Huntercombe, and saw
the grey outline of Ashley Hill blotted by the sweeping
storm. Who can say that romance is dead, when one
can stand by such a place as Huntercombe, with its
limes whispering in the rain, and see the distant
hills.? ...

" I sped on in the rain, and sheltered again by Fellow's
Pond, under a huge elm, watching the drops criss-cross
in the dark and silent pool. What a romantic place! I
have known it for thirty years — my first Sunday Boyle
and I walked there, and I thought it beautiful even then.
Every corner has a little sweet sunny memory of its own,
and my heart aches rather at the thought of the good
days gone. J. used often to lie there on a rug in the hot
summer afternoons and read. But I was always a little
overshadowed by work, as a boy, and anxieties. I came

1904] THE DIARY OF

in, had tea, and worked again at proofs. I am not tired,
but a little bored and stale with this hot weather — and
with an odd desirous yearning of the heart to the very
thing I have turned my back on all these years. One
ought to be married, no doubt; but it is too late now —
and I think I love my liberty better.

'* Still reading Kipling. I think the Gadshys an
extraordinary document, so human, so unpleasing — the
love-affairs of a cad ! . . .

" The misery of my unoccupied existence is that I
read and devour so fast. I can't meditate; I can't rest
in the beauty I see so easily. I seem to note it, to say
' that is beautiful,' and then it is over. From my window
I can see by the cemetery chapel spire a little blue
hill, over soft woodland ridges, waiting, under the evening
sky; unutterably peaceful and sweet. Nearer, it would
all fall into fields and elms; but seen like this, it is just
like a retrospect of one's own life.

" One pretty thing in the afternoon which I forgot to
record was a silent battalion of cavalry, in khaki, who
rode, for my pleasure, no doubt, over Dorney Common.
First scouts; then the column, galloping on the turf with
a fine clinking and clattering; and then a scout again,
with a riderless horse; that looked like war. ..."

In August he was in Scotland, staying with the
Donaldsons at Humbie House, East Lothian.

*' Humhie^ August 30. — This was a noble day. Willy
Leigh arrived at breakfast, looking very spick and span.
We determined on Melrose. . . . Stuart, W.L. and I
set off; we went right up on to Soutra Moor, such a fine
wild place, with a great low dark mountain to the West.
Then on and down, thridding these noble moorlands;
lunching just above Glengelt, opposite a heathery corrie.
We were soon at Lauder, a grim little town, but with
a pleasing high, octagonal tower. Then through
Earlston; but a south wind blew steadily and held us up.
Then a great couchant mountain loomed up on the left;
then we crossed the Tweed, such a noble river, on a

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

splendid bridge, a high viaduct, red and spindle-shanked,
to the right. Then a great dark mountain came
solemnly up — Eildon^ the very name of which gives me a
shiver. We were soon at Melrose, found Lady Alba
and Miss Cochrane. The ruins are extraordinarily
beautiful. I never saw more exquisite Gothic; and in a
soft red stone, which mellows to lilac. The grass, hare-
bells and ragwort, growing high on the arches, very
delightful. Saw the grave of Michael Scott and other
things which were dear to the childish mind; the cloisters,
and a long walk between walls, bordered with annuals,
very beautiful. I liked the look of Melrose, a largish
town, like a Cathedral town. But I don't really like a
ruin ; I always want to see it rebuilt. There is something
dreary and melancholy, not pleasingly so, about the poor
bones of a holy and beautiful house that distresses me.
The great east window (which Scott calls an orieP) is very
delicate.

" We had tea, and in consequence of my urgent desire
drove off to Abbotsford. I forgot to mention a young
cyclist, who lay reading a great book on a bank, gazing
up from time to time, like a bird drinking, at a big
mountain opposite him.

" The scene of Abbotsford very disappointing — tame
hills, tame plantations, and the smoke and chimneys
of Galashiels. There are a lot of horrible houses,
manufacturers' villas, etc., on the bank opposite.

" The place was much bigger than I had supposed.
It is let for the summer. . . . and the public are not
allowed to see much. You go in by a side gate, among
walls and hedges, through a square-walled garden of
turf and yews; and then you are taken into five or six
rooms only. But it was vastly interesting. One seemed
to get near to Scott.

" The things I was most interested in were (i) the
death-mask. A cap had been drawn over the hair; but
it shows the domed forehead and the homely face — the
lips fallen loose, the cheeks flaccid; (2) the big leather
chair and desk where he worked, and the secret door
by which he could steal down, early and late; (3) the

1904] THE DIARY OF

hideous, and yet adorable, orange Gothic glass, which
shows how very imperfect his taste was.

" I was not interested in the collections — swords and
purses and caps and odds and ends, mostly historical,
and much like other swords and caps.

" But I did like to see the funny white tall-hat, of
rough beaver, with a broad brim, which he wore, and the
rough black, square-toed shoes; and the silk black-and-
white waistcoat, like a footman's. That brought him
near somehow.

" The Raeburn portrait I thought affected; but there
was a pretty one of Mrs. Scott, and an evil one of Mary
Queen of Scots' head^ after execution; a bare red neck!
Scott appeared to me here what he was; a great big jolly
child — making a toy-house of Abbotsford, collecting old
bric-k-brac, pretending to be everything but what he
was, and enjoying that like a child; keeping up the silly
mystification about the books, as though ashamed of it;
* Not caring a curse,' as he said to Lockhart, ' about what
he wrote ' ; writing carelessly, cheerfully, without erasures
or corrections (I am astonished at the Lay, which we have
been reading aloud; at the great beauty of some of it and
the incredible badness and thinness of much of it, the
want of plan and finish and order, etc.); not a wise, tender
craftsman, enamoured of beauty, dreaming of hopeless
loveliness and the impossibility of expressing what is in
the heart, but a rollicking teller of tales. I don't say the
craftsman is nobler from the point of view of virtue — as
a man Scott was a noble, generous fellow; but an artist
ought to be more of a priest, I think, and live in mystery
and wonder and remoteness, as Wordsworth did, and
Rossetti, and many other worse men and yet greater
artists than W.S. Scott went about planting and fishing
and slapping people on the back and bawling them
out of bed at six in the morning, and pretending not to
write (I should have died of a visit to Abbotsford), and
so he went on, a jolly boy to nearly the end; and after that
a very good and gallant boy, suffering and working; but
with a whole dim and beautiful world of which he was
ignorant.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

*' As I write this in the dusk W. Leigh is playing a
sweet low sad thing in the drawing-room below; and
that strange waft or tenderness and yearning that such
music in these dim half-lit hours brings, comes flowing
over my spirit. I don't think I could have said that to
Scott; I think he would have laughed and offered me
his fly-book and a draught of ale!

" It is very pathetic to think of the old fellow at the
end, broken down and dispirited, coining blood into
gold, and all because he had been a fool about money.
It was a sad chastisement in kind. He spent /," 120,000
on Abbotsford !

" I rather liked the absurd sham Gothic armouries and
the hall and the big library — very rococo and trumpery,
but the effect good. What I don't like is the way
in which he despoiled Abbeys, and built the old niches
in to his gimcrack palace. But it ends by being a stately
house, all the same. And a spirit over it all, which is
high and simple and beautiful. ..."

** September 8. — The sad bare Berwickshire coast
pleased me; but the engine poured a stream of steam
like cotton-wool past the windows.

" It seemed that I was soon at York. I had two hours
to wait. I went and prowled about and saw some
pleasant houses and picturesque purlieus. The view of
the Cathedral from beyond the Chapter House is noble.
But the east view is horrible, it comes down on to a dirty
pavement, and the design is weak. They have been
clearing away old huddling houses from the neighbour-
hood of the Cathedral — a great mistake from the
picturesque point of view. It began to rain, and after
admiring the red and fretted front of St. William's
College, I went within. The glass is noble; and the
whole place is so rich and dim that it thrills one. I can't
set down all my impressions. I was pleased to find my
patron St. Christopher, in the nave. I was glad, too,
to find an iron pierced screen, locked, that led into the
venerable dark passage, of extraordinary stateliness, that
leads to the Chapter House. It is this mystery that

1904] THE DIARY OF

enhances one's pleasure in such a place. I rambled to
and fro — laughed at the Caroline Archbishops, sitting
uneasily among cushions, holding Bibles, and pointing,
with weeping cherubs, who look as if they had been
soundly whipped. But I do like variety!

" I saw that Mr. Kempe had been to work. There he was
in many postures, wrapped up in carpets and staggering
under the weight of jewelled chalices in window after
window, faint, handsome and affected. I sincerely
liked poor old Peckett, in the South Transept, better.
But why depict Truth as a glaring Turkish Bashaw.'' And
the other figures in the infamously designed niches are
all grimacing. I don't suppose they will survive. What
fools people are in matters of taste ! A mediaeval angel
was much more absurd in an eastern window of the tran-
sept, with a pinched and chilly face, and feathered
trousers! Truly grotesque! Yet Mr. Kempe and
Monty James would praise it.

" A verger took a party round, and talked so pleasantly
and gently; I did not listen to much he said, but just
crept about in the holy gloom, and felt the awe of
the huge solemn place, so filled with tradition and
splendour, creep into my mind. That feeling is worth ten
thousand cicerones telling you what everything is. I don't
want to know; indeed, I want not to know; it is enough
that I am deeply moved. A foolish antiquarian was
with the party, asking silly questions and contradicting
everything. Such a goose, and so proud of being
learned! The wealth and air of use pleased me. Yet
the spirit which built it is all gone, I think.

" Religion — by which I mean services and dogmas
— what is it.'' I sometimes think it is like tobacco,
chewed by hungry men to stay the famished stomach.
And perhaps the real food for which we starve is
death.

" I had to go away before the service. Caught the
4.30. Lincoln looked very solemn and noble in a kind
of grey haze, like Camelot. Then the dark began to
fall, in a cold sunset. I was horribly bored before the
end; wrote a hymn . . ."

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

Like his father before him, Arthur Benson was
all his life a dreamer of vivid and fantastic dreams.
Of the many that are recorded in the diary one or
two have already been quoted, and here is now
another.

'' Tremans^ September 11. — I had a long and very
absurd dream. It was a trial, in which the defendants,
or rather prisoners, were myself, a man whom I knew
to be Lord Morton, and third, unknown to me. I could
not discover what we were being tried for. It was before
a mixed assembly, which I supposed to be the House of
Lords ; a judge in a wig presiding. It was just like Alice
in Wonderland. By attentive listening I discovered it
to be a case of conspiracy; and the only definite charge
that was made was that in the presence of Arthur
Heygate, who was a witness, someone had said that the
only way to punish the Colonial Secretary for his political
mistakes was by not asking him to dinner. To this I
was supposed to have assented, though I had no sort of
recollection of the incident.

" At the conclusion of the first morning Lord Morton
was condemned to be executed. I saw it carried out.
We went together to a place outside, where there was a
flight of steps. He laid his head down, and a man with
an axe cut pretty deep into his neck. I saw into the cut,
it was like a currant tart. He then rose, and walked a
few paces with me; but saying that he felt ill (no wonder)
sat down, soon sank down and died.

** After this the trial, which had before been an amuse-
ment, became an anxiety to me. It continued, with all
sorts of irrelevant speeches. ' I never will desert the
Navy,' said one man at the conclusion of an impassioned
speech. I beckoned a man in a wig to speak to me, and
said to him, ' Can't someone make it clear that I know
nothing about the case.-* ' He said, ' Oh, it will be all
right.'

'* The Bishop of Winchester rose among others to
speak, very affectedly, dressed in full robes, with many
odd ornaments, leaning his hand upon Ed. Ryle's

1904] THE DIARY OF

shoulder. He said in the course of his speech, which I
thought weak, that he had had his pocket picked on the
previous day, and had lost a gold pencil-case, which had
belonged to his father, and which he greatly valued.
' But far more,' he went on, * did I feel the loss of an
MS. which the pocket contained — one of dear Arthur
Benson's letters.' This I thought to be in poor taste,
but saw that it had produced a favourable impression.
I was overshadowed all the time by an urgent fear of
death, but speculating as to whether the sort of execution
I had witnessed would hurt. I said to a lawyer who
came up, * I should not so much mind if I were
dying in a good cause; but to be executed on a charge
which I cannot comprehend, supported by incidents
which I cannot recollect, seems almost grotesque.'
He smiled, and said, ' Others have felt the same
before you,' which I felt to be unfeeling. I was then
called. ..."

" Eton^ October 25. — A most glorious autumn day;
sun and freshness. These are the noblest days of the
year. I worked very hard at the Castle — but had an odd
letter from asking my ' intentions ' about the head-
mastership. ... I told him exactly how I stood. But
it is borne in more and more upon me that it is no place
for me. My delight in my present quiet life, with its
sedate occupations; my intense sense of freedom in getting
rid of the people, the talk, the scurrying to and fro; my
deficiency of vague geniality, my dislike of occasions and
formal appearances; all these seem to unfit me, or rather
to subtract the zest which ought to be inseparable from
good work. I could not, I think, give up my literary
occupations.

" Then I am not large-minded enough. A head-
master ought to be partly like a brooding hen, sitting
contentedly on her eggs or sheltering her chickens, with
a tranquil and maternal love of life and company; and
partly like a gallant fighting-cock, strutting fiercely
about. I am neither; and the prospect, I find, is fading
quite out of my view. . . .

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

"Then I rode alone by Maidenhead and Marlow —
the Bisham woods very splendid, russet-brown and
gold. ... I rode fiercely home; got in at 5; and then
wrote a little blood-curdling story for C. Hargreaves*
new magazine. He had asked me cheerfully for a
contribution — ' about 2,000 words,' he said. These
boys never realise that it could be a strain — I suppose
that is a compliment. . . .

I will not forget the exquisite sunset of to-day —
such glowing, tender streaks of orange cloud, with a dim
rich orange glow in the west, calling me with a far-off and
gentle voice. I can't analyse the feeling that such a
sight gives me. And yet it is generally accompanied
with a sad reaching-out after a mystery — a feeling ' how
beautiful it is, and how much it could do for me, if only '
— and then one's weaknesses come streaming in."

" November 3. — Worked hard at the Castle — and I
make progress; the end is in sight, that is of selection.
In the afternoon I rode with the Vice-Provost.* We
plunged, of course, into the headmastership question,
and he accused me of being too nonchalant. I told him
just what I felt; how far from insensible I was to the
glories of the post, but was determined not to let that side
weigh. He spoke very frankly, but nothing that he said
altered my view. If they want me, I will go into the
question. If they do not, I am quite content. He said
that if it were clearly understood that I desired to try, it
would probably put me ahead of the field. But I don't
desire it. It ought not to be a question of sending in
names. It should be treated like a bishopric. Fancy
papa sending in his name for the archbishopric! When ^
we had passed Wraysbury, after many wild directions W
from the V.P., I begged him to talk of cooler things ; these ^
other matters are too hot in the mouth. So we plunged
into the life of Walter Scott, the Austrian War of '59,
and other pleasant matters. Went up Priests' Hill, and
through the Park; but the wide landscape was shrouded
in faint mists, all vague, shadowy ridges, no light or

* F. VV. Warre-Cornish, Vice-Provost of Eton from 1893, di^d in 1916,
91

1904] THE DIARY OF

colour. Met A.C.A. and Edward Horner, and they were
so much disconcerted that I saw they had been talking
of me. The Duke and Duchess of Sutherland to tea.
He is a pleasant, courteous, rather uncouth, shy man —
whom I like. The Duchess in her most Circean beauty;
she told me that the pretty motto on her title-page was
her own — and then talked of poetry — Yeats, etc. —
with a good deal of discrimination. . . . The
delightful Alastair, like a little robin, sate next me,
and chirped in my ear. It was a pleasant party. ..."

The Eton masters are represented on the Govern-
ing Body of the school by a member whom they elect.
This post was now vacant, and it was by some
suggested that Arthur Benson should stand for it.
He was very willing to do so; but owing to the
divergence of opinion in the matter of his educational
policy he eventually decided to withdraw.

** Eton^ November 6. ... I see I must not set my
heart upon this thing. I am obviously thought too
strong a Liberal by many of my old colleagues. I expect
that this great shuffle of posts, places and opportunities,
will leave me just where I was, with just the added touch
of ineffectiveness which hangs round an unsuccessful
man. Well, I like solitude and books and simple life
more and more. I would willingly give up all these
pomps and vanities, if I could but do what I feel I
could do, if I only could just get on to the right
lines — ^write a beautiful book — which should help and
satisfy people. I can express what I mean; and I
have some real thoughts. But I can't quite find the
medium.

*' To chapel, fearing that the great swarm of old boys
would make it unbearable — but there were fewer than
usual. . . .

" The good Lloyd played the * Ave Maria,' * to please
me; and I again take this opportunity of saying that I

* By Henselt. Unfortunately his wish was not known in time for it to
be played at his funeral.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

should wish it to be played at my funeral. Also he had
set down Parry in D minor for me — and with these and
Turle's chants I was well entertained. A mission ser-
mon, by a nice, simple man — really good — simple stories
of Selw\'n. I should like to have sharpened the points
a little, and put in a few Stevensonian touches; but it was
really fine. The appeal at the end was feeble.

"Walked with Hare to Sheep's Bridge; and then
rather desolately back. I have been rolling before a full
wind lately; and to-day it slackens; the sails drop. I
feel to-day as if I were to be one of those people, with
some gifts, but who are destined to effect nothing, to carry
nothing through, by reason of some slack fibre in their
souls.

*' I put up a wild-duck in the river to-day, by Sixth
Form Bench. It flew briskly away. That did me
good.

*' Magna fides avium est : experiamur aves.

"... To-day I want to get away from Eton; to be
at Cambridge, or better still at Tremans — to be out
of this rather suspicious, rather gossipy, intriguing
atmosphere. ' The isle is full of noises '; but they don't
give delight, and they do hurt."

'^November 12. . . . I now come back to Saturday.
I sent my bag in a bus, and bicycled to Slough. Of
course the bag didn't turn up, so I rushed in a cab to the
inn-yard, where I found it just being shouldered by a
leisurely boy. Saved it and caught train — saw
Cornwallis and Harold Lubbock, going off for leave.

" Drove straight to Regent's Park; found Gosse hot
and rosy, in his velvet coat, having walked to Welsh
Harp — which ought to do him good — he is much too
sedentary. But I wish he had waited till the afternoon,
so that we might have walked together.

" Mrs. Gosse came in looking very kind, sturdy and
rosy. While lunch was preparing, G. and I walked
arm-in-arm up and down the little gravelled garden.
He spoke to me very kindly and frankly — very anxious
I should accept Eton if offered. . . . He says my energy

1904] THE DIARY OF

is restless and sub-divided, and wants one channel. But
my channel is now literature, with a slight * hem ' of
academical duties. (What a metaphor !) He did not like
my * Isles of Sunset ' — thought it should have been
written in verse; thought I was doing too much, and
ought to be silent for a bit; praised the ' Rossetti,' and
said it had made me a real position. I pointed out that
I did my best, that my work was not hurried nor
particularly slipshod; that one must follow one's bent in
the fruitful years; that he wrote much more than I did.
This was interrupted by unsuccessful attempts to catch
Mopsy, the great black, surly cat. I don't think I
converted him; but he said smiling, * Perhaps it is only
jealousy, after all ' — and we went in to lunch.

" Lunch was profuse and delicate. Tessa was there,
very frail. But I liked the look of Sylvia, who has taken
up art, and works diligently. She looked healthy,
bright-eyed, with a dancing light of zest about her.
There was a big picture of hers in the room, of fir-trees
and ferns and woodland — very carefully studied, but a
little too pale in colour.

" We then — -Gosse and I — sate about and talked all
the long afternoon. Philip, very bright and cheerful,
liking his work, came in for a little. But we mostly
talked, very easily and simply about literature and life.
A good deal about Pater. . . .

" Gosse said, with much solemnity and serious feeling
— a mood which one sees but rarely, and is then very
moving — that the older he grew the more he felt that
personality and individuality were the qualities in art;
that nothing else mattered much. ' I may or may not
agree with a man on questions of morals and art, but all
I desire is to feel that it is a perfectly sincere point
of view.'

** So we talked while the day darkened without.
Then tea; and then, to my great surprise, which moved
me a good deal, he accompanied me to St. Pancras;
where, in the great big echoing station I met P.
Lubbock. Gosse was most affectionate and paid me what
is the best compliment of all — said my visit had comforted

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

and cheered him up. ' We care about the same things
and in the same way,' he added — * we must continue to
see something of each other regularly.'' ..."

" Eiori^ December 1 1 . — . . . Then, against my custom, I
crept to chapel. I hated Noble's Magnificat and its
ugly ending. But 'Hear My Prayer' was delicious;
though to-day it had no inner voice for me. And yet
even now in this book, where I write so freely, I cannot
say what I mostly thought about; vague reveries, tending
one way.

" Then I sate while Lloyd played a Handel Concerto.
The trampling of feet died away. The chink of coin
(there was a collection) became fainter. The lights
began to die out; and then Lloyd played absorbed, while
the huge organ brayed and thundered above, or let fall
musical showers of sound. . . .

" I find myself very full of work, very full of thought.
But I think I am too discursive just now. I wish I
could read more; I don't see many people, and I desire
that less and less. . . .

" It was very strange to look down into the flaring
chapel to-night, with its dark roof; the familiar smell;
everything as it has always been; just so it looked thirty
years ago when I sate as a Colleger in the seat just below.
That life seemed so intense and absorbing then; the
relations to other people so important and distracting.
I wish — but what is the good of wishing? — I had had a
more definite aim and principle. I was then like a reed
in a stream, plucked this way and that by wind and water.
I think I am not very different now; but I know my own
mind more; and a dim ideal seems to shape itself. I
wish that it led me to desire to rule this big place; but
the burden is too great, the issues too enormous. How
little I guessed, as I sate down there thirty years ago,
staring at Hornby in his stall, that I might have even the
chance of sitting in that stall myself!

" But this is a fruitless reverie, for I don't mean to
sit there — even if I have a chance. And how much
stranger it is to reflect that if I had supposed I might

1904] THE DIARY OF

have had a chance of sitting there, I should not desire
to do so. It seemed so easy a thing to be a Head-
master then.

" And now I like my stall at Magdalene better.
That little place, the tiny chapel, the little ivied court,
draw me with a far tenderer longing."

The visit described in the following extract is
referred to in the sketch of Charles Fairfax Murray,
the well-known collector and connoisseur, included
in Memories and Friends (1924). The gift of the
" Spanish MS." was the first of Fairfax Murray's
many and generous benefactions to the Fitzwilliam
Museum at Cambridge.

''December 16. . . . I had had a bad night, full of
wild dreams; went up to town horribly sleepy and tired,
and drove to the Grange; found M. R. James* there
already.

" Fairfax Murray had asked me if I knew anything
of ' M. R. James, Director or late Director of the
Fitzwilliam,' as he thought of offering them a Spanish
MS. I replied that he was one of my oldest friends.
F.M. thereupon asked me to arrange a meeting. So
I did.

*' He was showing M.R.J, the most splendid and
sumptuous MSS., things which possess not the faintest
interest for me. The colour of the miniatures is rather
pleasing; but I would not give 2s. 6d. for the best MS.
of the thirteenth century, except in order to sell it
again.

*' But he showed Monty about fifteen of these — and
I saw he was in a generous mood. He suddenly said,
* I will send you al/ these if you like — and I want to give
you all my autographs of Italian painters, and all the
original MSS. of William Morris and Rossetti.' I
suppose that the value of this gift is several thousand
pounds. F.M. went on, ' I have a very great objection

* Dr. M. R. James, afterwards Provost of King's, and since 1918 Provost
of Eton, was at this time Director of the Fitzwiliiam Museum.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

to the death duties; and there are certain things in my
hands I don't want to get sold — so I propose to give
away ever)-thing, except what may be sold.'

" This was rather splendid and simple — and he went
on, ' Our friend here (me) will tell you that I want no
sort of recognition. I hope it won't get into the Press —
I would rather it were anonymous.' M.R.J, said with
great tact, ' Well, we only desire to thank people in the
way they like best.'

" The rest of the afternoon, with an interval for tea,
was just wandering about among his wonderful things
and looking. He carried a great branch-candlestick.
He and M.R.J, got on the early printed books, which
did not interest me; so I got a book called Melusine^
with enchanting woodcuts, that gave me some ideas for
stories.

" But here again the value of the afternoon was its
atmosphere. To wander about in these great warm
darkening rooms, with these splendid and beautiful things
ever}'where, did one good. He is a very delightful
simple man, and I have a real affection for him. I
can't quite make out his mind. I think he has the mind
of a collector through and through ; his reminiscences of
people are all exact impressions, always with a certain
quality (and he is a good raconteur, having a considerable
dramatic gift); but they are quite without any proportion,
and he will press quite unimportant details, apparently
quite unaware they are unimportant. But his big
head, frank eyes, and the simplicity, kindliness and
childlike honesty of his talk make him an attractive
fellow.

" I should like some of his portraits and pictures; but
I want nothing else that he has got. I wonder what he
would feel if he knew that I didn't care twopence for all
his books, MSS., studies or engravings. But I like his
fine stately house. It belonged to Richardson once,
who wrote his books in the garden-house. But I don't
care twopence about that either!

" I drove away with Mont)' — horribly yawny and
stupid from so much standing and looking. He off to

G 97

1904] THE DIARY OF

Cambridge. ... I slammed his finger in the hansom
door, so he had no reason to bless me; but he had the
best Spanish MS. to console him."

'* Tremans^ December 31. — Now let me say a few words
about 1904, which has been indeed a blessed and happy
year to me. I have had lots of little worries, but the great
strain is gone — the tension that pulled at one's heart,
like a dog tugging at its chain, and drew the blood away,
whenever one allowed oneself to think of it. The
thought of the old slavery, the fussy, fretting days — the
running hither and thither, the scramble, the weariness,
and what made it far worse, the purposelessness of so
much; that was what knocked the bottom out of the Eton
life for me. To feel that for nine-tenths of one's
furiously busy hours one was teaching boys what
they had better not learn, and what could do them
no good; drumming in the letter, and leaving the
spirit to take care of itself. It is sickening to reflect
about.

*' Well, all that is gone.

** I settled down at Ainger's in February last in great
depression. I thought I could not endure to have no
books, no papers of my own; no voice in asking guests
or making arrangements; having to do for myself the
hundred little details — buying stamps, shopping, etc.,
which I had left for years to my servants. But I soon
picked it up; and the absence of all necessity for
independence has turned out on the whole a great
relief.

*' Then I have been very happy in my work. I have
come to enjoy writing more and more; I make the day
centre upon it, and lay out the hours to guard the writing
time.

*' And then, too, I have made a real stride in art. I
don't think I write better : the Myrtle Bough* was as good
as I could do now; but I seem to have become a citizen
and a denizen of the City of Art — the City, whose

* A valedictory pamphlet, privately printed and circulated among his
friends at Eton, 1903.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1904

luminous and radiant towers I used only to see across
the river and the plain. . . .

" It is not perhaps the central fortress of life that
I have found; but it is one of life's fenced cities, and it is
a great happiness to feel that one has arrived there — it
is like being a Fellow of a College.

" And that takes me to my fellowship, which is a
great happiness — though still a seed underground; yet a
white tendril seems to be stealing upwards. I have a
strange wistful love for Magdalene already. I long for
her, with a kind of tender compassion. So small, so
beautiful, so despised.

*' Then, too, I have been very happy in seeing many of
my old Eton friends in a serener and simpler way than
formerly; and I have made some new friends, especially
among the boys. But the whole year has a sort of
aromatic fragrance for me — I don't know why — and
this in spite of many little discomforts, and some really
painful episodes. Indeed I seem to have been walking
in the garden of the Lord in the cool of the day.

'* Of course the question of the headmastership is
a little overshadowing; but I have really not been
overshadowed. When I begin to get anxious, I say to
myself that after all, even if it were offered, I can't be
compelled to take it. But if it were offered should I dare
to refuse? Well, I have spoken out over this Greek
question; and I daresay I have what a prudent man
would call spoilt m^y chances. . . .

" In the afternoon I walked soberly and gladly round
by the Sloop and Scaynes Hill. I don't know what I
thought about. Such a sunset — I never saw anything
more beautiful; a very fiery rim to the sky, so that it
burnt between the trees like a furnace; then lemon-
coloured, and pale rich green, like a green jewel; over all
a huge cloud like a fish, its snout in the English Channel,
its tail over London, of pearly laminated cloud, like
scales — an amazing sight.

" I dipped down by the field-path as I came home, the
path that crosses the stream and the line. I never saw
such a sight. The hill rose steep above me, very dark;

1904] ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

a few silhouetted trees looked over; above, the glowing
sky, and the great dark, fish-like cloud, swimming south.
The valley of the stream not less beautiful; the mystery,
the loveliness of it all, came like a tide, floated me, so to
speak, off my feet, and away into a region of dim desire
and hope; joy with anguish intermixed. I wonder what
it all means — so real, and yet so far-off. ..."

100

1905

He was not offered the headmastership; and with the
blithest of satisfaction and relief he heard the news,
in the following March, of the appointment of Canon
Edward Lyttelton, then Headmaster of Haileybury.
That was the end of an unquiet time; for many of
his friends had urged him to change his mind and
present himself as a candidate; the Eton Governing
Body, too, or at any rate several of its members, had
approached and sounded him assiduously; and he on
his side had been occupied unceasingly in declaring
and expounding the manner of his unfitness for the
post. Perhaps he was not the best judge of his
unfitness, but of his unwillingness there could be no
doubt at all; it was sincere and constant — and as
much so as ever when the question was closed and
the time for reconsideration was over. Then at
last he felt safe, and he joyfully cast the long and
harassing preoccupation from his mind. Now he
could devote himself to Magdalene; and already he
was fondly disposed towards his beautiful little college
as never in all these years he had been towards Eton.
There was a perplexing mixture in his feeling for his
old school; he was one of Eton's untender sons, it
must be owned, and now in his final liberation he
grew no kinder.

It was a singular case. With all that he was still
to accomplish I cannot doubt that the best and most
original of the work of his life was done at Eton, and

lOI

1905] THE DIARY OF

especially in his house there; it was among the boys in
his house, for those ten years, that all his talents, all his
gifts of imagination and perception, were used to the
full. To that degree they never were used elsewhere
— certainly not in his writings, and not even, as I
should say for various reasons, in his solid and valued
achievement at Cambridge; nothing in all this ever
seemed to be in the same way the work of the whole of
himself, brought to a point. And yet, departing from
Eton, he was able to break off his task in the middle,
at the height of its prospering course, and not only
never to miss it, but never to feel, apparently, that
any real part of his life, any intimate share of his
mind or heart, was left behind him in the school.
He was, he remained, most unfilially detached
in his bearing towards Eton; and his severity m.ight
be braved, but his absence, his obstinate refusal
to set foot in the place for many years, was a
harder cut, and one which Eton could not feel to
be deserved.

So it befell, however, and for a long while he was
seen there no more. He said that he felt that he had
been badly used. But why? — but how? He was
thankful to have escaped the headmastership, and his
friends were at liberty to disagree with him on the
" Greek question," and though argument had run
high there was nothing but delight in his company
and a welcome for his arrival, wherever he appeared.
What then was the matter ? He freely, much too
freely, explained the matter, and himself, if nobody else,
he had soon enlightened and persuaded; and by that
time Eton was a complication and an embarrassment
in his thought, and it was comfortable to put it
out of sight. And so it went, much to the puzzle-
ment of his friends, but not much, in truth, to the
disturbance of his own good cheer; it was not a
grievance that grieved him long. But still, if his
friends of Eton desired to see him they must see him
at Cambridge, on his new ground; and this they
readily did, as often as possible, and there was no

102

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

break in any friendship of old times. He imposed
his own conditions, as usual, and his days proceeded
as before, agreeably and busily and sociably as ever,
only with Eton exchanged for Cambridge and tor
Magdalene.

He took a set of rooms in college and spent the
terms there, keeping the Old Granary for the vacation.
His fellowship was honorary, but he was soon deep
in the affairs of the college — giving a series of literary
lectures, taking a set of pupils in essay-writing, and
above all, with lively interest, with daily hospitality,
making himself the friend of the undergraduates.
Of his pleasure in Magdalene, of his pride in seeing
her wax and flourish, of his sedulous and open-handed
care for her beaut)- and honour, I will only say that the
tale, now begun, was never interrupted until it was
ended after twenty years by his death. Magdalene
had the first claim on him henceforward, and except
for two periods of illness, a shorter and a longer, he
never missed a term in college. The rooms that he
occupied at first were in the cloister court, on the
ground floor of the Pepys building; and here — or in
his house by the river in holiday-time — book after
book was poured out in the course of this year, 1905,
during the guarded hours between tea and dinner.
From a College fVindow^ The Thread of Gold^ Beside
Still Waters^ The Gate oj Deaths the volume (for the
English Men of Letters series again) on Walter Pater
— all were the work of these teeming months; it was a
record of fertility that even he, I think, never surpassed.
Moreover the correspondence of Queen Victoria
still occupied him constantly; the selection from the
papers at the Castle was already complete, but the
long editorial work was only beginning, and it had
stretched out over the next two years before he saw
the end.

The pages that follow will show how quickly he
was established in his new circle; which indeed, with
Donaldson as Master of Magdalene, with another
friend of yet earlier schooldays, Dr. M. R. James,

103

1905] THE DIARY OF

about to become Provost of King's, with his youngest
brother, Father Hugh Benson, at this time Hving in
Cambridge, was a circle where he could soon feel at
home. (" Donald " and " Lady Alba " at Magdalene,
" Monty " at King's, will be recognised without
further formality; they are always near at hand in the
diary, during the Cambridge term.) Of many other
friends and acquaintances, new and old, the names
will often be heard before long. In King's, of course,
and also in Trinity, he was on familiar ground from
the first; but there was no college in which he was
not soon a well-known guest. He enjoyed the society
of Cambridge, and he entered into it with all his
energy; and I may dare indeed to say that he brought to
it, and to its high appreciation, a novel and genial and
unprofessional air that might quicken the round of any
academic concourse. To those who know Cambridge
it is enough to say that he was at once elected
a member of the *' Family " dining-club; and those
who do not may take it that the intimacy of the place
in its most companionable mood, most traditional
humour, was thrown open to him as soon as he
appeared.

But first the question of Eton and the headmaster-
ship is to be disposed of — with a few pages, out of
many in which the subject is talked out, from the
diary of the earlier part of the year. There is no need
to count the steps of the negotiations, debates,
expostulations, that loaded the daily post between Eton
and Magdalene; but it will be understood that as the
crisis approached they were more and more frequent
and urgent. The Provost of Eton, as chairman of
the Governing Body, invited him to an interview; he
answered that he did not think he could " form a
ministry," and certainly would not compete. His
old and attached friend, Cornish, the Vice-Provost,
tried hard to move him, but in vain.

" Magdalene, Ash Wednesday, March 8. — A memor-
able day for me. Cornish writes to say that he deeply

104

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

regrets the turn events have taken; which means that
my letter to the Provost is taken as final, and that I am
released. For which relief I humbly thank God. Indeed
my spirits have gone up with a bound, and I feel
like a schoolboy. I do not for one instant regret my
action, and I am quite sure I never shall regret it.

" What I feared, at the bottom of my heart, was that
I should be cornered ; that the Governing Body would
offer me the post in such a way that it would have been
cowardly and unpatriotic to refuse. I should have
done it with fear and trembling, knowing it was not
really my line. . . .

*' Well, I am honestly very glad indeed; I feel like
the man in the psalms, whose ' soul had escaped even as
a bird, etc' I feel as if I had recovered my liberty
which had been menaced. Providence, I think, has
brought me into this anxiety, in order to show me how
dear and precious a thing Liberty is. Libertate me
involvo !

" Is this a low, selfish, egotistical view.'' No, because
I do honestly mistrust my strength, my patience, my
capacity. I think it quite possible that I should have
made a fiasco of it. I think that there is a sad lack of
good candidates, and that this alone has forced me into
prominence; but my true life is not there.

*' Of course I feel that Eton is in rather a bad way,
intellectually and morally. I should like to have helped
it out. But could I have done it.-' And after all I gave
nineteen years, my best of life, to the place.

" It is a beautiful bright cool spring morning. Two
big pigeons have alighted in the grass just outside my
window, seeking their meat from God.

" I went to the Commination service at 10 — a very
husky affair; three men, chaplain, Master, Lady Alba,
me. The only thing that I carried away, except the
sense of the splendour of the great rhetorical address,
was the verse, ' thou shalt make me to understand wis-
dom secretly.'

" Now I sit writing, in great thankfulness and
contentment. I had not realised what a burden these

105

1905] THE DIARY OF

anxieties had been till they were lifted from my mind,
and I feel like Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress, when
the burden fell off his back and rolled into a pit that lay
in the bottom, and he saw it no more. . . .

" I lunched with Donald and Lady Alba alone; a
pleasant talk about the College, etc. — then a walk
with Donald to the top of Madingley Hill. Such
a sweet day — cold and fresh, but with a real spring
wind. . . .

" Came down to Coton. We talked out everything,
Eton, the Provostship of King's, etc., etc. I was glad
to find that my contentment only increased, now that
these stately beckoning hands — ' Come up hither! ' —
have withdrawn. I felt no shadow of envy, rather of
compassion, for the man who should be called to Eton.
It is a very strange position. . . .

" Well, I could, to use an Eton metaphor, run in at
the head of a rouge, well pushed by strong men; but I
can't drag the rouge with me, if they are reluctant and
retrograde. ..."

Whether the metaphor from the Eton field-game
was really to the point; whether the " rouge," by
which he meant his friends on the staff of the school,
was indeed so reluctant; whether, if he had come
forward and found himself at their head, he would
not have been well pushed home into the goal : it skills
not at this late day to inquire. But as for the
" beckoning hands," it may be mentioned that
another and to him a more alluring prospect had lately
been opened for a moment and closed again. Augustus
Austen Leigh, Provost of King's, had died in January
of this year, and there had been talk of Arthur Benson
as among his possible successors. Nothing came of
that suggestion, but it had added in passing to the
matter of thought with which these weeks were
filled.

" Magdalene^ March 9. — This morning spent in
endless letters, etc. It is hopeless work — not a

106

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

line of my proofs. I am again being bombarded about
Eton.

*' I am going on quietly with my undergraduates at
luncheon; and really I think it rather amuses me. If
one could only take things quietly and simply, they
would never be worse than tiresome — never agitating.

" I am a little bored by always having them; but now
the instinct of the collector comes to my aid, the desire to
complete the collection, to tick them all offl What
feeble creatures we are; but we ought to use these
primeval instincts more. . . .

" Then Monty and I walked to Grantchester, and
daffed about many things. Then I contrived to write a
passage about religion, which is very^ careful and sincere
— but too outspoken? Then I dressed and went off to
Trinit)', to the Lodge. What a noble house it is — such
dignit}', amplitude and wealth of pictures and memorials.
Mrs. Butler came and talked; then came the Master
from chapel, very noble to look at, his pale, waxen face,
his kind, tired eyes, his odd beard; in gown and scarf,
cassock, decanal coat and silk stockings. We went into
hall by an odd little staircase and came out on the dais.
He and Aldis Wright read grace, somewhat marred by
a crash of falling trays. . . .

" The Master talked suavely, interestingly, con-
tinuously. ... It is difficult to retain any impression
of the stream of his talk. It is remarkable for its
range, its knowledge of people, its finish, its blandness.
He has an exaggerated idea of academical success, I
think. . . . Then we stalked out together, ver)' fine;
the Master and I leading the way. Another little thing
he said amused me. ' Do you know,' he said, * Percy
Thornton's very inferior book — dear Percy Thornton ! —
a dear, a very dear and intimate friend of mine.' In the
combination room he spoke very feelingly of his mistakes
as a headmaster, principally of severity — his eyes
filled with tears. . . . He is a very beautiful and
striking figure, a gracious personality. I felt that I
was with a great man, and a man of condescending
greatness.

T07

1905] THE DIARY OF

" Then we went to the Lodge, where he showed us the
big judge's bedroom — on the ground floor, full of
interesting pictures of judges. Then in the drawing-
room a miniature of Byron {not very good). Then many
other pictures: holding a candle aloft with a tremulous
hand with white pointed fingers: Mrs. Butler and a shy
red-faced girl with a great mop of hair — I never heard
her name.

" Then I went to Henry Jackson; a parliament of
smokers. A most dismal business. The great man
stood, like a comic mask in a wig, and read in a book,
which he sometimes showed his neighbour with a
screeching laugh. Ugly and perspiring men, faint with
conviviality, stood about. Then I drifted up to Lapsley
who paid me compliments — and then went off, after a talk
with Cunningham, to Lapsley 's rooms, where I found
the old set, Barnes, Laurence, Foakes-Jackson, with
whom I have somehow got included, though they are
not at all my sort. How odd these juxtapositions are!
Before I knew what I was doing, I was enrolled in a
dining-club, to have free religious discussion. Good
God! — as if that did any good!

" Then, finding it 12.15, ^ ^^^ howling, with Foakes-
Jackson, whose little feet, after he left me, I heard
pattering down the stony passage by the Round Church.
He said that he dreaded to interview the porter. . . .
I enjoyed the evening very much, and ate and
drank so moderately that I had a singular lightness of
mind."

Of the well-known figures that peopled that evening
at Trinity, death has since then taken away the bland
and gracious Master, Dr. H. M. Butler — William
Aldis Wright, the Vice-Master, sturdy and laconic —
and Henry Jackson, with his humorous eye and his
Socratic mask. Nor could the new dining-club, thus
inaugurated, now be assembled in Cambridge, since
Dr. Foakes-Jackson of Jesus migrated to New York
and Dr. E. W. Barnes to the Temple and to Birming-
ham. They, with the two members who still remain

108

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

in the courts of Trinity, Mr. R. V. Laurence and
Mr. G. T. Lapsley, though they appeared to Arthur
Benson " not at all his sort," must quickly have been
found to be very much of his sort indeed; for they
were among his closest friends in Cambridge for all
the years that ensued.

Another fiimiliar and memorable Cambridge face,
now vanished, is to be seen in the following extract —
the roseate jovial petulant face of the Registrary,
and the general friend, of the University, J. W.
Clark.

''April I. — I plunged early into the fray and wrote
about thirty letters to all concerned — mostly short notes
just to say what I was doing. The only long letter
to Anson. ...

** I must say that, as an omen, I had a good encounter.
As I came out of my house, having packed off all my
letters, I met J. W. Clark, very red in the face and sleepy-
looking, but with the old nice smile. He said to me, ' I
suppose I shall soon have to congratulate you on new
honours.* I said, ' No, I have just refused to have any-
thing to do with it.' ' Then I congratulate you with
all my heart,' he said. ' You are a man of letters and
not an administrator — don't forget that. . . . '

" Well, the spirit in which a man takes up a post
heavily, nervously, anxiously, in a spirit of shuddering
and sacrifice, hating all the machinery, etc., is not the
proper spirit. I could make a sudden great sacrifice,
I believe; but the daily self-immolation ? I could make
it perhaps; but all the qualities in me that are worth
anything only grow in the sunshine. I am not one
of the people who are effective when they are
depressed; I am only really any good when I am
blessedly content. I know this — and this is why I have
felt disqualified.

" If all the staff had been with me, set on the same
objects as myself, ready to make concessions and com-
promises, and valuing the principle above the detail;
if the Governing Body had summoned me cogently and

109

1905] THE DIARY OF

constrainingly, I would have gone, not gladly, but willingly.
But with a G.B. who don't know their own mind, and
with a staff who distrust me, and with a hopeless dislike
of the whole business of administration, how could I go?
My work is meant to be done in a corner.

*' I have no doubts really about this; and such as I
had seem to melt out of my mind like clouds on a bright
summer morning.

** Just a little soreness remains — ' these are the
wounds with which I have been wounded in the
house of my friends.' I was anxious to help on the
G.B. — I was prepared to help now; but they won't
have me.

" But I don't want to make myself out both as happy in
my refusal and pathetic. V I am happy, unreasonably and
absurdly happy. I feel, as I think I said, like a mouse
who hears the trap snap just behind him. The pathos
lies further away, the pathos of being somehow, in spite
of certain gifts and powers, a failure; just not effective.
It is the secret core of weakness, selfishness, softness in
me coming out. But after all, it is He that hath
made me. And one fine and beautiful lesson I have
lately learnt, and that is the hollowness of personal
ambition.

** I feel as if I should like never to see Eton again,
except in dreams. I gave her my money's worth, I
think; but I could not go up higher." ,

His holiday inn this Easter was the King's Arms,
Dorchester — again with Tatham.

''Dorchester, April 18. — A mass of letters — but we
went off early by train. Corfe Castle, sitting on a
lonely hill, between two black downs, with a misty
valley behind, looked astonishingly romantic and dim. I
liked Poole harbour; but there was an old boring talking
man in the carriage. . . .

"We were at Wimborne by ii.o. The Minster
interesting, but rather disappointing. It has a central
Norman tower and a western one. But it is a low church,

1 10

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

and the brown stone with which it is restored is ugly.
The town very uninteresting. Found service going on
and sate it out. Three clergy, and about 30 women!
It seemed very false and weak and sentimental. One
old parson read aloud in a feeble voice from the choir
steps a very intimate and strained meditation (by Thomas
k Kempis?) — the sort of thing one might read, in a
morbid mood, in one's bedroom, but not fit to be publicly
recited. Then came a hymn; the women squeaked
feebly, but a fine strong bass sang with much feeling —
one of the clerg)'. Then the ante-communion, long
Gospel. The whole thing seemed to me dilettante and
silly. One felt that the clergy had no business to be
sitting there dressed up, feebly wishing things were
otherwise, and bending in prayer, I daresay quite sin-
cerely. It seemed unmanly, antiquarian. They ought
to have been trying to mend the world, if they felt like
that, not engaged in sleepy mooning orisons. I felt a
hatred of all priestly persons, eating the bread of super-
stition and sentiment. I am full of sentiment myself,
but it ought not to be organised.

*' Then, with two silly women, we were taken all round
by an intolerable, stupid, deaf, vain old clerk, who could
not understand one's questions, and repeated his
lesson. . . . He said that there was an enlarged
photo of himself in the town, in robes. ' I am
known to thousands of people,' he said. Horrid old
wretch 1

" I remembered that it was here that Cornish wooed
and won Mrs. C. I liked to remember that. . . .
Y *' Then we found in a little village called Anderson
a simply enchanting manor-house with a big farm-
yard attached. A house of brick, with gables and oriels,
in a wild garden, with a stream running through big
laurels. How I should like to live there! A little
church close by. Here we lunched, with a friendly
spaniel who shared our sandwiches. A big black dog
made demonstrations of displeasure; but the peace of the
whole place, in this quiet green valley, among water-
meadows, the old gables of the manor above the trees I

1905] THE DIARY OF

It is to be sold next week. One could live there very
happily, I think. But coelum non an'imum. , . .

*' Then we rode on, but took different turns and
missed; but rejoined again at a big pine-clad hill-top.
Then by Kingston, a house like Addington in a
green park; and into Dorchester by the water-meadows,
giving a fine view of the town. Another quite delight-
ful day, full of the sweetest impressions of this beloved
earth.

" A lot more letters. A fine letter, full of sense and
courage from Herbert Winton*, approving my decision.
An interesting letter about books from E. Horner,
a moan or two from the Vice-Provost. A sensible
letter from the Master of Peterhouse about Le
Bas prize — from Lady St. Germans, President of
Magdalen, Willie Strutt, North S. Hamilton, and
others — a very interesting batch. I sate down at
once and wrote fifty, or to be accurate, 25; and did
not dislike it. Then a peaceful dinner; and letters
and diary."

" Magdalene^ May 5. — I dabbled about with letters
all morning. Young paid me a long visit, and we talked
Eton out; but I protest before heaven I will not speak
more of it unless I am obliged. He was very affectionate
and blithe. . . .

" Then I got a bike out. I had slept indifferently and
was a little heavy. But the day was simply enchanting
— a cool north wind, the air exquisitely clean and clear.
. . . There is a wold, perhaps sixty feet high, above
Swaffham; and Swaffham is just on the edge of the
huge fen that stretches to Ely and Soham, and of which
one bit, Wicken, is still (undrained) fen. Well, by the
mill up there the view was gigantic and glorious: the
long, pure lines of fen and dykes from verge to verge:
and on the edge was Ely, in a dim, blue majesty, the
sun shining on the leads as FitzGerald saw it from
Newmarket heath sixty years ago ! . . .

* Dr. Herbert Ryle, then Bishop of Winchester, afterwards Dean of West-
minster till his death in 1925.

I 12

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

'* Then I rode back; and by the Devil's Dyke a
cuckoo flew beside me, moving his grey, shimmering
wings slowly, and when he perched manoeuvring his
ribbed tail. He seemed loath to leave me. I wonder
what gift he will bring, false and pretty bird.'' Do I,
like him, want others to hatch my eggs, content with
flute-like notes of pleasure.^"

I wrote a passage on returning: dined in hall. . . .

"Then H.W. paid me a call: a nice boy, full of
anxiety and good feeling: in the midst of Sturm und
Drang^ finding what he calls his '* dearest convictions "
failing him: very pathetic in one way, and rather sadly
amusing in the other. His admiration of and confi-
dence in my literary powers and oracularity of speech
rather embarrassing. We had a long mixed vague
talk; but I knocked a few nails in, I think. I cannot
help feeling that if this boy finds the art of expression
he may be a good WTiter; at least he seems to me to have
ten times \}[\t fire I ever possessed. When I realise the
intense vehemence and impulsiveness of a boy like this,
his " exultations, agonies," I feel what a very mild
person I was; I fell into depression as a young man, but
even that I bore with angelic meekness; I never had the
least vestige of a kick in me !

" He discoursed of the dons at Emmanuel, and
opened my eyes somewhat to the light in which we
harmless persons are regarded. If a don is crust)' and
silent he is held to be arrogant; if he talks he is a bore.
What the devil then is he to do.? My young friend
smiled: ' Oh, it is in the nature of things,' he said."

** H.W." was at this time an undergraduate at
Emmanuel; and it may be allowable to mention
that he has since gone so far in fulfilment of his
friend's prediction as to write the novels of Mr. Hugh
Walpole.

** Monday. May 8. — A letter from Edward Lyttelton
summoned me to town: I went up, after writing many
letters. Found Shipley* going up to the Grouse Disease

• Sir A. E. Shipley, F.R.S., Master of Christ's since 1910.
H 113

1905] THE DIARY OF

Commission. He is amused to find that it is almost
entirely in the hands of crack shots, responsible for the
death of many more grouse than even the disease itself.
It is a humorous idea, people trying to stamp out the
disease that they may have the fun of killing the grouse
themselves.

** I drove to the House of Lords. I found Gosse in
the library, and had a pleasant talk. . . .

" Then I went to National Club. Found Edward,
brown as a berry, full of tranquillity, good spirits and
confidence. He unfolded to me his schemies. . . .

" I thought that this interview might have tried my
philosophy and fortitude; that I might find myself wish-
ing myself in his place, with a free hand to carry out
ideas. But I did not for a single instant. Indeed it
was very much the other way. Again and again I said
to myself, * Can it be that I don't really wish to have
the carrying out of these things, and to hold this great
position? ' And not the slightest echo of desire or
envy or chagrin came back. That is worth something,
I think: worth the long and wearing anxiety of the
candidature.

" We sate and walked up and down in the little
garden at the back of the National Club ; it was sunny,
and a fresh wind blew and stirred the bushes, which were
all green. I liked Edward's candid gaze, the smile which
broke out all over his face, his splendid laugh. He is a
mere brown skeleton; but his hands still red and stumpy
as of old. I felt an odd mixture of confidence in his
strength, and entire mistrust in his judgment. We
finished our talk looking over the little wall above the
embankment. Sir A. Bateman passed and regarded us
with grave surprise. Then Edward hiked off to a
doctor in Harley Street, about his throat; and I back
to King's Cross; and through a sunny calm evening to
Cambridge, revolving schemes for Eton, and heartily
glad that the burden was not on my back. ..."

'* May 15. — I seem never to have a moment to write
in this book now. I am really as much (or more) hustled

114

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

as I was in old days at Eton. I struggled desperately
with letters ; but had to go off at 1 1 . 1 5 to Pembroke Lodge
to see the Bishop of St. Andrew's* by appointment.
I found him at the door, pacing about in the sun: looking
very tired; but with just the kind and wistful look of old;
the only sign of age a certain heaviness and slowness.
I took him to the Granary and he asked me about everyone
and everything, looking very long at E.W.B.'s pictures,
especially at the Vanity Fair, which he liked. Then
to Magdalene; where he asked me about myself and my
soul, and spoke very beautifully and simply, like a wise
and tired child, half on the verge of tears, of walking in
the Will of God, holding to His hand. Then I took
him to the chapel ; and he knelt down on the step in front
of the altar and motioned me to kneel by him. He
prayed very tenderly and wistfully about me and my
dear ones, alive and dead, himself, my work and his.
And then he rose and with great dignity and simplicity
laid his hands on my head and blessed me, with a beautiful
form of words of which the music remains with me,
though I cannot remember the words themselves — to be
guided, led, helped, comforted. I drew very near to him
in that moment; and I felt, too, a strange solemnity, a
consecration about it, coming just at the time when I have
refused and missed great opportunities; perhaps it was
a kind of consecration of my life to Magdalene — who
knows? — and yet I do not feel as if Magdalene was
to be my home for long. But anyhow, it was just
the peaceful patriarchal blessing I wanted and
needed. . . .

"And so we walked out in the sun and I tried to
thank him, but could not; and he got into the cab
and drove away with a smile and a wave of the hand,
carr)'ing my love with him. His pale face, the dark
circles under the closed eyes, the wistful, smiling,
tearful lips, the black hair, will long live with me. . . .
Of course I am not in line with him in the
superficial tones of belief; but I am with him below

• Dr. G. H. Wilkinson, formerly Bishop of Truro, died in 1907. A sketch
of him by A.C.B. is included in The Leaves of the Tree (191 1).

1905] THE DIARY OF

and within, though we don't call things by the same
names. . . .

" Then I rode off alone, Monty having thrown me over;
and again I had one of the most curiously beautiful
rides of my life. I got to Milton: saw the church, in
its green shade, with its elaborately written monuments,
its glorious little window of Jacob, with hands like
parsnips: then crossed the line, among the green
pastures, so full of great thorn-thickets : and then along
the tow-path, riding slowly down the Cam. Such a sweet
clear, fresh day, I wound slowly along past Baitsbite
and the Waterbeach bridge, into the heart of the fen.
The space below the tow-path full of masses of cow-
parsley: the river sapphire blue between the green
banks — the huge fields running for miles to the right,
with the long lines of dyke and lode; far away the blue
tower of Ely, the brown roofs of Reach, and the low
wolds of Newmarket. It was simply enchanting ! Such
a sense of peace, and happy loneliness, and space and
silence. I found a trench full for a mile of the sweet
water-violet; pale lilac flowers, with a heavenly scent, on
green slim stalks; leaves like hair: this flower an old
friend of mine from Eton days. So I wound on and
on, full of peace and content ; I declare that the absolutely
flat country, golden with buttercups, and the blue
tree-clumps far away backed by hills, and over all the
vast sky-perspective, is the most beautiful thing of all.

" I got to Upware; was ferried across in an old boat;
spun before the wind to Cambridge. Then Monty
came in to tea, very solemn and well-dressed, blue suit
and black tie ; the Provost I How strange it all seems,
and yet how natural; that mouth-filling word, with such
dim and awful associations. . . . We talked away,
and he told me how he was sent for after the first
scrutiny and asked if he would accept. There was a
green table set out by the choir door inside, and fellows
in nearly all the stalls. He accepted, and they filed out
shaking hands. He told me too how the choir-boys
asked to see him, and did him a simple homage in their
vestry. Very nicel

116

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

"Then Hall with Jones; and a Concert Committee in
Sawday's rooms. S. seems resourceful and energetic;
then a little work; but I was tired."

He is next seen at Tremans, where " Hugh " is of
course his younger brother, Father Benson, and *' Beth "
the much-loved nurse of the family, now frail and
aged, but still incessantly active in her care of all her
children.

" Tremans, June 2. — It is very sweet to be here,
though a hot soft wind this morning roars in the pines,
and the laburnums are all dishevelled. I wrote, read,
talked all morning. I can't find courage to attack the
Q.V. bundle.

" Then walked with Hugh, in sweet w^oods and lanes;
down by the lake, by Danehurst; and back by the green
lane that comes out by Townplace and Freshfield. He
is a strange nature. He is entirely unworldly; hates
cruelt)', rudeness, lack of consideration above everything.
Yet he is himself in a way very inconsiderate. Table
and ledge, all over this house, are heaped with books he
has torn out of shelves and thrown down. The litter in
the little smoking-room is fearful. Last night he would
not leave dear Beth in peace till she had found him a
box, and she trotted about far more than was good for
her. He has a great charm; though I often feel that
in my absence he thinks little of me. He has, indeed,
all the charm, the bonhomie, the attractiveness, the
hardness of the artistic nature.

" I wrote away about Pater and Cuckoos. Then
found M. at dinner, looking well and strong. We
rather lapsed into vague scrappiness about the Mission,
etc. Then I read a little paper which aroused some
discussion. Then prayers, cutting short the thread,
with a hymn which I can only call damnable; bearing
the same relation to poetry and music that onions and
toasted cheese do to claret and peaches; strong, coarsely
flavoured, ugly, untrue nonsense. It is odd to me
that the dear ladies who are so refinedly critical in

117

1905] THE DIARY OF

other regions don't see that this is vulgar. I don't
myself believe that vulgarity is a sin at all, but I
happen to dislike it; and in this short life, that is
enough. ..."

" Saturday^ June 3. — They are celebrating the Fourth
of June at Eton, and thank God I am not there in any
capacity whatever.

" I wrote letters all the morning, . . . Then I
took a bicycle and rode by Chailey and Plumpton, on to
Wivelsfield, and back by Hayward's Heath. It was a
perfect day; and this great undulating plain, full of oak-
woods, with the pure austere line of the downs, so dark
and dusky, coming out at every turn over the bright and
fretted green of the uncrumpling oak leaves, was a per-
petual joy. The view from North Common is one of the
most beautiful in England, I think. I pondered many
things, not unhappily, though my thoughts had a
melancholy tinge to-day. Life races past so swiftly;
there is so much to see, to enjoy, to feel; such endless
beauty, so many dear and interesting relations with others
to experience. I feel like a man at a huge banquet,
lamenting his slender appetite.

" The white heads of daisies, floating on the top of
deep meadow grass, affected me tyrannously.

" I felt as if I could have ridden for ever in that quiet
joy, feasting my eyes and heart on quiet beauty and grace,
until the evening. Yes, and what then.-^

" Since then I have written a little at Pater, and my
book, really finishing the latter, I think. The proofs
arrive. Every now and then a gun is fired in a field
near; a fierce twitter of sparrows and starlings rises in
the ivy, and the peacock blows his harsh trumpet. . . .

" The evening falls slowly; a warm air steals in. The
laburnums hang heavily, and the birds sing faintly. All
is breathlessly still. Dear old Beth comes trotting up
with a rose which she has tied for me. Well, I have
had another very happy day, and am grateful."

It is impossible to consider the life of Cambridge
twenty years ago without soon encountering the sub-

118

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

stantial and ubiquitous figure that next appears.
Arthur Benson long afterwards made a more finished
portrait of Oscar Browning — it is to be found in
Memories and Friends, of 1924 — and the same
struggle of distaste and admiration, both alike
reluctant, is seen in this page of the diary.

*' The Old Granary, June 12. — Having next to no
letters and no paper I began work immediately after
breakfast on the Q.V. letters, and did a great batch. But
it is too hot for comfort. . . .

" After lunch I went off in a calm and leisurely spirit
on a bicycle. It was a peculiar pleasure to get out of
Cambridge, which was crammed with Whit-Monday
folk, as well as the bevies of sisters and friends, led about
by excited undergraduates. I don't at all wish to
depreciate this background. It is rather pleasant when
one is living independent and secure, to feel this gaiety'
going on, which w^ould be unendurable if one had to
take part in it. I rather like the perpetual swish of waves
beneath my window^, the creaking of oars, the cheerful
chatter of irresponsible persons; it sets the slow melody
of my own thoughts to a cheerful descant. . . .

'* I saw a goldfinch, and a large finch unknown to me,
I imagine a hawfinch. Then on by Babraham, over
the Gogs, with a splendid view, richly coloured and
tranquil; and so home, a good ride and very happy.

" Tea. Then wrote a fantasy for my House 0} Neville
book. Then O.B. came to dinner. This was a severe
trial. But I got an odd, pathetic interest out of it. He
talked for two hours without a moment's cessation of his
influence, the ambitions he had had, his services to edu-
cation, his services to King's, the malignity- and jealousy
of everyone in the world. He said that his habitual
feeling here was that of a whipped hound, that ever\'one
was in a conspiracy to belittle and insult him. And yet
it was all full of fine flashes of insight, of purpose, of
wisdom. . . . He indulged in many acute char-
acterisations of people. He described his farewell to
Uncle Henr}', which he said was very afl^ecting. It

119

1905] THE DIARY OF

appears that O.B. talked, according to his own confes-
sion, entirely about himself, in the same vein; his ambi-
tions, his services, his disappointments. It never enters
the man's head that he is in the least to blame; I won't
say it makes me miserable, for there is a lurid interest
about it all; but it is really the saddest thing; because
the man is a genius, and because he has done a great
work, in his odd, selfish way; but he is all coated and
scaled with egotism, and covered with prickles. He
had brought a lot of documents with him, and the even-
ing ended by his reading to me in his fat utterance the
testimonials he had received when he stood for a Pro-
fessorship at Glasgow. He never said a word about
anyone except to malign them; he never asked for an
opinion; he did not attend to anything that I said, and
interrupted me again and again. The only remarks
which he listened to were those that were couched in
flattering terms. The effect is indescribable. I felt,
when he waddled off, as if I had been turned over and
over in somewhat ill-smelling waves; and yet I couldn't
help realising his force, his brilliancy and his genius.
He set me thinking somehow; and gave one an inspira-
tion to try and keep up an intellectual standard. He

made one ill jest about and his wife, which is

really incomparably humorous, but rather too broad
to reproduce. Je my perds ! The strangeness of the
creation of such a man, so fine, so gross, so public-
spirited, so mean, so intellectual, so dull, so great, so
little, is a perfect mystery. The tares and the wheat
grow together in rich luxuriance, inextricably inter-
twined. His ruling passion seemed to be to make
King's a great college, and to make all the money and
credit out of it that he could. He has done a great work
and covered himself with discredit, and deserved dis-
credit. He has created a school here, and he is detested.
He has fought the battle of intellectual things, and he
is a holy terror. He is a genius and a bore, a man of
light and darkness; Hyperion and a satyr, Jekyll and
Hyde. I cannot defend him and yet I admire him; I
cannot respect him and yet I like him; I pity him with

120

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

all my heart, and yet the one thing he does not desire
is pity. He is half baker and half devil; and the odd
thing is that he is not now one, now another, but both
at once. There is no theory of God which will explain
the existence of a man like O.B. And the result of my
talk has been that the mystery of the Universe presses
fiercely on my mind."

In all these years, and until the end, Arthur Benson
often went to stay with his cousin, Mrs. Stephen
Marshall, at Skelwithfold, near Ambleside, and it is
there that he is next seen. It will be remembered
that the " little Monarch," as Duke of Albany, had
been a boy in his house at Eton.

*' Skelwithfold^ July 20. — I wrote a long letter to the
Duke of Saxe-Coburg, congratulating him on his
accession, and bidding him rule well. Odd to find
oneself advising a little Monarch how to rule. I do
wish him well with all my heart. . . .

** A cloudy morning, rather close and grey. . . . The
afternoon was most interesting. We drove through
Ambleside, and I recognised the house where the pert
girl was in 1870 — it was just below Belle Vue, and
belonged to a cousin of Wordsworth's — now a training
college.

" We went to Fox Howe. This place was built and
planted by Arnold, just sixty years ago; yet it has all
the look of an old, settled, peaceful place. It is odd that
the time required is just too long for a man to enjoy it
himself. If he built at forty, and few people can do it
before, he would begin to have it right at eighty. The
house is bigger and more stately than I had thought; in
the semi-ecclesiastical taste of the 'forties. The garden
beautiful — it is embowered in tall trees and lawns —
one with the oddest curved flower-bed I have ever seen;
all this planned by Wordsworth. From the windows
you see green water-meadows, leafy hillsides, may-trees,
and great green mountains; but it is rather a hothouse;
and the ceaseless cries of trippers in their char-a-bancs on

121

1905] THE DIARY OF

the road hard by are horrible. Miss Arnold received
us — a dear old lady — rich complexion, big smiling mouth,
full of teeth, long nose, rippled hair, slight cast of eye;
but with such a sweet, courteous manner, so that one
hangs on the simplest words that come from her lips
as seeming to have a flavour and a quality denied to
others. We talked of her relations and mine — I wish I
had a beautiful, dignified, courteous manner! It comes
from those qualities in the mind, joined with a certain
timbre of voice and distinctness of utterance. . . . We
walked about the garden a little; and then drove away; I
valued this sight of an interesting house and a gracious
lady very deeply.

" Then we drove on to Rydal Mount; and were
fortunate again — Mrs. Fisher- Wordsworth at home; we
passed by the way houses inhabited by all sorts of familiar
names, Ouillinan, Rawnsley, Wordsworth. Rydal
Mount is invisible from the lower road. You walk up
past the church. It is a very tiny place — like a farm-
house— but the gardens with trees and terraces, and the
odd Mount of Meeting, which gives its name to the
place, are all impressive. I remembered seeing it in
'70 — the slate steps leading up to the front of the house,
through rhododendrons, recalled it. Papa gave me a
Wordsworth, bought at Lincoln Station, in honour of
the visit.

" The rooms tiny — and a fearful smell of dry-rot —
but deeply moving and interesting. Portraits and busts
everywhere — such as Haydon's. But it must have
looked very different in the Poet's time — much newer,
much more raw; he was making the garden then, and
adding to the house — and of course much simpler in
furniture, etc. The garden struck me greatly — the view
of Windermere, the beautiful fall of the ground, the
trees, the almost tropical luxuriance of everything. I
felt a good deal of emotion about the whole thing — much
more than at Fox Howe. The stiff, self-absorbed, common-
place-looking man (Wordsworth, I mean) was, after all,
a high priest of mysteries — and the house stands for much
high and beautiful joy. He lived here thirty-five years.

122

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

" They are terribly harried by trippers. But Mrs.
F.W., rather a pretty woman, showed us everything,
the chests, the little old parlour, etc., with great zest. I
wish I could copy the dignity of Wordsworth, in
refusing to do anything but what he loved. I will
aim at that.

*' The lines of Milton kept running in my head as
we walked about, with a deep thrill:

On this mount he appeared; under this tree

Stood visible; among these pines his voice

I heard; here with him at this fountain talked.

P.L., xi, 320.

The two places together filled me with interest. School-
mastering and poetry 1 To see the abodes of two of the
prophets, masters in these two arts, both of which I
have practised, and in both of which I have meekly and
humbly failed, was a kind of humiliating inspiration.
After this I decided to walk over the Fell. Not a breath
stirring, and a close, unutterable heat. I went slowly
up among the ferns, dripping, buzzed about by flies;
but with fine backward glances at Nab Scar and the dark
lake below. As I rose, the great mountains rose to look
at me, behind the nearer hills. ..."

" TremanSy August 16. — I read Wm. Johnson's journal
in bed — his views of chivalry, etc. — and felt truly
ashamed of my paltry, weak, trivial, sentimental, ignorant
mind. I know nothing, am miserably biased — but it
is of no use bemoaning it; I remember what interests
me. I expect I read as many books as he did! It is
like music; no amount oi study of it reveals the inner soul,
the appreciation which a child may have, to the un-
musical. W.J. writes in one of his letters respectfully,
yet incredulously, about music to A. Coleridge. Melodies
aflfected W.J. — he tied on to them something of the
romance and melancholy of the world; but he didn't
really believe that a change of key could affect people
as they said it did. Yet even to me, with my paltry
musical gift, a change of key is like magic.

123

1905] THE DIARY OF

" Well, one must go on and do the best one can with
one's powers. ... I lunched off cold fragments — very
nice. Took a train to Hayward's Heath, and then by
Burgess Hill right out to the west. ... I found at last
such a pretty out-of-the-world place, Twineham, with a
little brick Jacobean church, at the end of a lane — small,
dark and comfortable; an old Italian picture (a bad copy,
I expect), of a holy family, which might have some
appeal to imagination, poked away over the chancel
arch, without misgivings, in order to make room for
Mr. Kempe at his worst. A sly, ferret-faced angel,
incredibly involved in raiment, as though the celestial
temperature were arctic, making his announcement to a
Virgin, who looks as if she were being photographed,
very demure. The colours inoffensive, but a poor
work of art.

" From the pretty little lonely churchyard, over a
wheatfield, the outline of the down rose and fell, like a
green and shadowy wave. A school feast at the vicarage.
I read epitaphs, and sate long on the broad, low slab of
a grave, wondering who and what my host, that lay
below, had been. It was very sweet in that little
secluded churchyard, and for once I had no sense of
hurry. Twineham Place, an old farm-house, held up
its timbered gables and rusty chimneys very pleasantly
over a grove of oaks. . . .

" What an odd thing one's mind is. I have no great
desire to be loved by other people; yet I should like to
think that in the days to come, when I am gone, some-
one should care to retrace my rambles, and even wish
me back. ..."

''August 17. — Letters and business all morning. I
forgot to say that on my return yesterday I visited
Cuckfield church, which is rich and dim, like a cathedral,
full of villainous, yet joyful, glass. It has an incompar-
able view from the churchyard; yet I suppose that man
can't live on views alone.

" I spent rather a feeble morning; a hot, damp south-
west wind was blowing, and the mind was unstrung. I

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

went out bicycling, and worked down against the wind
to Burgess Hill, returning to Wivelsfield, and I saw many
beautiful vignettes; a deserted byre, with a big stone-
tiled barn, doors open, and a water-wagtail, with head on
one side, looked curiously in to the raftered dark; a
little timbered, ancient house, the front walls all scored
with pale half-circles, where the roses swung to and
fro; a deep, silent lane, overhung with close hazels, up
which I went in gratified silence. ... It has been a
happy day, at least a contented one, in spite of a few
sombre shadows which lie in the background of the
mind, like big clouds, and from which a few scattered
rain-drops seem at times to fall.

" What odd tricks the mind plays. At Stanmore I
saw in the church the grave of some good woman, who
died on August 17, aged fort}'-three. I was seized with
a mild presentiment that August 17 would bring me
some fateful crisis. But it has passed without event,
and I am still here, though yesterday the thought was
about me all day, not sadly, but with a grave
solemnit)\

" I reflect that since I have left Eton, in addition to
all my work on the Queen's Letters, I have written the
following books:

Cambridge Revisited (not published).
FitzGerald (62,000 words).
Upton Letters (80,000).
College IVindozv (40,000).
Pater (60,000).
Leonard* (60,000).

My poetry lectures — quite a book (50,000).
The Thread oj Gold (80,000).
Enough essays and articles to form a small
volume by themselves (40,000).
10. I have published a volume of poems.

It is a long list; yet I am not at all a hard worker — only
a very regular one. . . .

* Afterwards called Beside Still WaUrs.
125

1905] THE DIARY OF

" I don't quote this for the sake of credit; no one can
be more aware than I am of indolence and laziness;
but I quote it to defend my manner of working — to show
that even an indolent person who cares about his work,
can produce a very fair amount of moderate work in a
short time. The point is to care."

" Magdalene, October i. — To King's Chapel — met the
Bakers — Monty went in in state — I did not care for the
service, somehow, no unction. Came out and saw
several friends — Sir R. Ball, Lady Albinia, Vice-Provost,
etc. Monty carried me off to his rooms, but found
them sported, and I regret to say stamped and positively

swore. * D n 1 ' he said, standing there in surplice

and Doctor's hood. This was picturesque. We went
up the back way. He told me he returned with bewil-
derment and shrinking to his new work. So does the
Dean of Christchurch, from whom I heard to-day — * my
usual bewilderment at the beginning of a new academical
year.'

" We were going to have had a talk, when J. W.
Clark came in, looking very well; and discoursed about
himself, his foreign tours, his library schemes, his books,
his articles, for nearly an hour — expressing the most
unbounded and acrid contempt for everyone else in the
world. . . .

" He walked away with me, and told me more
of his plans — the restaurant system for College
Halls, full of sense; and one can't help loving J.,
though he does despise the human race, for his
own geniality and affection, which are entirely
sincere. . . .

" Then back and wrote. I had noticed in King's
in the morning a fine-looking boy, evidently a fresh-
man, just in front of me — lo and behold the same
came to call on me, and turns out to be Mallory,
from Winchester, one of our new exhibitioners at
Magdalene. He sate some time; and a simpler, more
ingenuous, more unaffected, more genuinely interested
boy, I never saw. He is to be under me, and 1

126

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

rejoice in the thought. He seemed full of admiration
for all good things, and yet with no touch of
priggishness.

" I wrote feverishly after that — dined alone — wrote
again. ..."

Of all the friends that he ever found among the
undergraduates of his college, none was nearer or
dearer to him than George Mallory. For both of
them there was much reward in this alliance, which
lasted until Mallor^-'s death upon Mount Everest in
1924.

^'November 11. — Slept rather ill — wonderfully
elaborate dreams; Papa showing me a MS. book of his
early poems, written in shorthand. On the bottom of one
was written, in his father's hand, ' A similarly approving
opinion of the advantages of conjugal love was expressed
by the late Mr. W. Cobden.' The words ' W. Cobden '
were impressed on the page with a kind of stamp, an oval
line round them. The old, rather yellow pages, with
the blue ink in which the poems were written, the
blunt capitals of the stamp — I can see this all now with
absolute fidelity. The human mind is a very odd
thing. . . .

" Then to my dining-club — Foakes- Jackson, Barnes,
Lapsley, Laurence; the guests, Adam Sedgwick, the
Vice-Chancellor,* Wedd. I sate between \Vedd and
Lapsley, opposite the V.C, who was in high good-
humour. His big, queer, ruddy face, all puckered and
creased with geniality, his stiff mop of hair, his slight
stammer, give him a cachet. ... I can't reproduce his
sallies. Their humour depends upon their sense of zest,
combined with a certain quaintness of expression, and
a very infectious laugh — together with a sense of personal
kindness and interest. One can't help liking the man
and respecting him, and though he is in a way undigni-
fied, he has the dignity of vigour and good sense and
real simplicity.

♦ A, E. Beck, Master of Trinity Hall.
127

1905] THE DIARY OF

" The dinner was excellent — a little too good. The
wine extravagantly so — an old Marcobrunner, a '93
champagne, and a Leoville '70 claret afterwards; also
audit. I thought that everyone drank a great deal too
much (except myself, of course — but that is taste, not
principle); after dinner the decanters went round and
round, and people drank both port and claret freely. I
put a spoonful of claret in my glass and sipped it for the
sake of geniality! . . .

*' Afterwards things were not so merry. We smoked
in a little slip of a room, in which people could not
circulate or gather in groups. I got stuck on a sofa with
Sedgwick,* and enjoyed the talk of this positive, brusque,
pleasant scientist, interlarded with oaths. He has a
curious admiration for literature, and talked books hard
— with a half-regretful air, as a man might talk about
vintages, without being able to tell them apart. I grew
weary, not of him, but of myself. I did not want to sit
in one place, boring one man to death; why can't there
be more ease and simplicity about these things.'' Mean-
while a group scintillated at the fire, talked and laughed
shrilly. How well I know that kind of false convivial
excitement, which is not even pleasant. At midnight
the V.C. rose, and crept downstairs, and so we parted.
Let me note that the funny little yellow coach or sedan,
which draws a lady from the great gate to the Master's
Lodge, was standing out, there being a party at the
Lodge. No one knows where it is kept. It must be
quite an ancient relic. Finally to bed late, and
dreamt horrible and elaborate dreams. So much for
conviviality — an overrated thing. . . . "

" Sunday, December 10. — I was much grieved last
night to hear of Jebb'sf death. He had a great attrac-
tion for me — both the thought of his delicate and
beautiful mind, as well as of the secluded scholarly
character of the man. Of late, it seemed as if I had

* Adam Sedgwick, afterwards Professor of Zoology at Cambridge, died
in 1913.

I Sir Richard C. Jebb, Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge since 1889.

128

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

come nearer to him. He was always very cordial when
we met. The last time I saw him was at the Board of
Education, when he sate opposite me, and slept all the
afternoon — he was obviously unwell.

*' His wide blue eye, his veined and almost scarred
face, thin whiskers, much brushed up hair and great
stoop, gave him an odd distinguished look — half
common, half refined. His sonorous, clear, poetical,
resonant voice, always very beautiful. It was strange
to see him oar himself along with his hand, as with a
paddle, beating the air.

" He used to speak warmly of my English st)'le. I
felt somehow that he liked me. . . .

" Gosse in good spirits — we went to King's Chapel
together and sate in the antechapel. The service very
sweet: Hark! a thrilling^ etc., made me want to be up and
doing, though not necessarily on clerical lines.

" Then I talked to W.D., etc., in the court; wrote;
lunched; walked with Gosse round Coton. A sunset of
quite extraordinary beauty — the leafless trees, seen over
bare fields, the hamlet roofs, the world beyond, and the
sun sinking orange into smoky wisps of cloud, which he
seemed to draw with him. We watched the crimson orb
slip behind the hill. Horace Darwin and his daughter
watched it too.

" We talked of many things. . . . He told me of a
little autobiographical book he meant to write — his early
days with his calvinistic father — the contest of paganism
with rigid faith. . . . He seemed glad to be here, and to
feel better after his quiet day."

" The Old Granary^ December 16. — Such a beautiful
day of calm, golden, chilly sun; everything sparkling and
subdued, too. Letters and business in much mass all
morning. A welcome letter from Esher to say that
the King will now be able to look at proofs, etc., now
that the crisis is over. A nice letter from the new
Postmaster-General. . . .

" In the afternoon Monty came for me just as I was
going to bike — so we walked together by Coe Fen, the

1 129

1905] THE DIARY OF

avenue, and out to Cherry Hinton. We went into the
church, and looked at the delightful monument to a
young Serocold, with the extract from Lord Hood's
despatch, which begins, * I have to regret, and which I
do most sincerely,' etc. We also admired the beautiful
Early English chancel, so light and clean and ascetic in
air, with its slender shafts and rich mouldings. Monty,
this great academical dignitary, in loose grey suit, white
Homburg hat, small, ill-tied shoes, shuffling along
merrily, pleased me. We rambled along inconsequently
in talk as we are wont to do — always quite delightful.
He is one of the few people to whom I can and do say
exactly what I think and as I think it. He never
misunderstands, is always amused, always appreciative.
And yet I can't recollect what we talked about. We
came back by an abandoned road by the huge cement
works, which contrived to look sombre and solemn in the
gathering dusk, with their huge chimneys belching
smoke, their powdered roofs, their odd retorts and
towers: the lights beginning to be lighted within, and
giant shapes of moving beams and rods to move shadowily
before the windows. It is all very well to think these
huge places unromantic and ugly, but what would a
mediaeval knight have said if he had seen one at the end
of a forest avenue.? We came back in the dark by a
long lighted road, the shops wearing a Christmas air.
Then by Parker's Piece, the R.C. Cathedral standing
up very beautiful over dark houses against a sunset
sky. Then to a book-shop where he bought books —
and so back to tea. Then I worked hard, a review of
In Memoriam with Tennyson's own notes, a series of
gruff growls and snorts of disdain — and other pieces.
. . . Then dined alone; afterwards reading and writing
till late. I like these solitary evenings now, and need
no companion. I am reading the life of William
Morris again. The frank and beautiful youth, so
unconscious, so vivid, of these interesting creatures —
he, Burne-Jones, Dixon, C. Price and the rest — pleases
me by its fragrance and affection. And I regard it, too,
as one of the best written biographies of the century,

130

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1905

if not of all English biographies. It is so perfectly
balanced and proportioned — so just, so beautiful. But
it makes one sad, too, to think that all these lives have
faded into dust! If I could but get hold of a belief
that would bring the death of sweet things into line
with hope, what a difference would be there! I slept
very ill, and read W.M. in the quiet hours between
3.0 and 5.0, the weir rushing outside, the night still
and cold."

131

1906

It became clear that to spend the term at Magdalene
and the vacation half a mile away, at the Old Granary,
was not a good arrangement of the months; and the
Old Granary too fell out of favour when the quiet
mill-pool was invaded by all the holiday-makers
of the summer. A smaller excuse would have been
enough for the pleasure of changing houses. And so,
in the Easter vacation of 1906, he is found established
at the village of Haddenham, a few miles from Ely,
in a house called Hinton Hall, surveying the wide
green levels of the fen which he loved so well. As
for the house itself, it appeared, as he said, to have
been ordered and sent down ready-made from the
stores — a hard-featured little villa, destitute of every
grace; but it took his capricious fancy, and the silent
waters and solitary pastures that surrounded it were all
that the philosophic recluse of the House of Quiet
could desire. He did not, in point of fact, desire
them for long, and his solitude was nearly always
shared with a friend ; but he spent some weeks of the
summer there very happily, writing and bicycling
at the top of his vigour, devouring the countryside in
long afternoons of exploration, racing home at the
appointed hour to his chapter on the blessing of
tranquillity, the curse of restlessness. His friends were
not slow to admire how sociably he cultivated seclusion,
how energetically he commended repose; and he
laughed where he could not gainsay them — the

132

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

placidity of his books was less than ever the reflection
of his life.

His friends might laugh, but they could also feel
uneasy; for signs were not wanting that he over-
taxed his strength. Apart from his work at
Magdalene he was now perpetually dashing off for a
day of business in London. He was a member of
various educational committees, he was president of the
Modern Languages Association, he was an examiner
of naval candidates at the Admiralty; and what with
lectures and pupils at Cambridge, and a daily corres-
pondence inordinately swollen by the popularity of
his books, the weeks of the term were as much of a
scramble and a hustle by this time as ever they had
been at Eton. He could not be temperate in occupa-
tion; and the strain upon his nerves began to be
manifest even to himself when at length he found his
fluency checked, his writing impeded, by difficulties
that could only be a symptom of ill-health, for he
knew no others. More serious, as might seem to
those about him, was a sensibility of temper that
was vexed increasingly by small things, slight causes
of offence — a controversial mood that grew upon
him; many pages of his diary in these months are
filled with a record of irritation that was ominous,
it is easy to see now, of trouble to come. By the end
of the year he was already suffering from attacks
of depression and listlessness that were a torment
to a man of his vitality. If he could not at every
moment be working, stirring, active in some way,
the world lost all its savour, his spirit dropped in
perplexity.

Most of the year, however, was fortunate enough.
The three volumes of the Queen's correspondence
were at last settling into shape; two or three books (of
which only one was published, The Altar Fire) were
written as enjoyably as usual; and a series of discursive
articles for a weekly journal, the Church Family News-
paper^ was started with such zeal that he was soon
ahead with his contributions by several months.

^22

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

And now he had definitely taken his place as an author
high in the favour of a large audience — whose homage
began to reach him in many forms, all gratifying,
not all equally convenient. There was no fault to
find with the form that magnified his income; this
remained at a handsome height in all his working
years henceforward. But his attached public was
not content with buying his books in big editions;
it also wrote to him — wrote in the warmth of its
heart from all over the world, and never wrote without
receiving a punctual, pleasant answer that encouraged
it at once to write again. His legion of readers
added their weight to a burden already severe. His
courtesy was inexorable; he had to reply to every
letter that ever reached him, and again to every letter
that replied to his. And so the snowball rolled
up, and the daily post became by far the most
formidable part of his work.

As for his public and its tribute of devotion, he
was always in two minds about it. Nobody could
dislike to learn that his books were welcomed and
treasured in all quarters of the globe; and nobody
could find himself so endeared to a host of strangers
without being touched and pleased. To his far-
scattered correspondents, so long as they were content
to know him by letter only, he was infinitely generous
of his attention; and some of them, always on the same
condition, became real friends. But his ironic sense,
and his critical, were both too lively for complacency.
Much as he loved his books in the writing, he looked
at them with no indulgence on the shelf; and while
he thanked his kindly readers, he appraised them,
it must be said, with the frankest impartiality. He
might feel supported at times by the chorus of their
voices, but he was also embarrassed; above all he
did not wish it overheard by his friends. He made
many attempts to evade it by anonymity, once or
twice so successfully that to this day there are books
of his, shyly facing the public, which I believe have
never been brought home to him. But in general

134

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

the secret was out before anyone was mystified; and
from now onwards, do what he might, he remained —
at a long arm's length — the master, the confidant,
the confessor of an oddly assorted flock. We used
to think with pleasure that not a few of these votaries,
if they had had the fortune to see and hear him face
to face in an unguarded hour, would have been shocked
indeed.

''Magdalene^ February 8, 1906. — After Hall I looked
over the Prize Poems for the Chancellor's English Medal
— ten in all. Two were good^ one in blank verse the
best, I think — but one in pretty triplets, decidedly
poetical. Another had some fine stanzas: ' The cheer-
less-whirling wheel ' struck me as a Tennysonian touch
of high merit. The rest worthless."

*' Friday^ February 9. — A disgusting morning of
letters — I wrote about 30. . . . Then 1 had a great
pleasure — it was bitterly cold, but I bicycled alone, on
frozen roads, out to Boxworth by Huntingdon Road.
I had not realised how thirsty I was becoming for the
country. Never did a sun-baked man drain a cup of
well-water more greedily than I took in the impression
of the fields wrinkled with cold, the low hills, the black
pinfold-lighted tower of Lolworth, the partridges calling
in the grass, the broad misty fen. I came back the same
way; and then by invitation to tea with the charming
Mallory, in his rooms in the corner of the court, over the
road. We talked like old friends, mostly of moun-
taineering, and I was pleased at my entertainment.
Then worked hard at various things. To Hall, which was
cheerful and pleasant; and then I had to rush to St.
John's to read a paper before the Theological Society.
It met in rooms in the top of the furthermost corner of
the New Court. I had never been here before. The
stone corridors and iron-railed staircases are horrible —
but the rooms have a certain dignity and st)^ie. In a
long room, with green Gothic doorways, quite small,
I found more men assembled than I could have believed

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

could have got in — forty, I should think. We began
with prayer, very solemn. Then I read my elaborate and
inappropriate paper on Personality in Art, sitting in a
low chair in the corner with a glaring lamp. Then a few
questions were asked, and I discoursed fluently but not
well about Ruskin, Carlyle, etc., etc. Then it was
brought to an end, coffee came in, and a group of very
nice boys came round and asked me all sorts of questions.
I only wish I did not feel so big and stupid, and so little
like the celebrity they seem to regard me as. One, whose
questions had struck me, with a very odd crop of black
tangled hair, strangely parted, was most attentive; and
finally walked with me to the gate, discoursing softly.*

" The great tower looked very fine in the moonlight,
as we passed through the great splendid courts. . . .

" I liked my young friend — asked him to lunch;
came back, smoked, worked fitfully at trifles, and eventu-
ally to bed, though dreading my cold room; and dreamed
horribly — a confused dream of being back at Eton as a
boy, of swinging by a rope from the ceiling of a great
hall, my aim being to swing myself into a balcony at the
side. . . .

" I forgot to say that on Thursday afternoon, about
2.0, one of the strangest storms I have ever seen came on.
The air became dim and black — there were furious
flashes of a sort of purple lightning, heavy peals of
thunder, and then a furious shower of hail, so that the
garden was whitened with it.

" They have not only felled the pretty alder, but
pruned the plane, so that the houses of the Chesterton
Road look in as by a window into the garden. It is
rather pathetic that my original offer of trees to the
College was just to fill this ugly increasing gap; and now,
as long as I hold my fellowship, the scar will gape, and
show the brick and slated houses through. The little
slated turret which I see hurts my mind as often as I
think of it.

" The garden is now full of mounds of earth, pits,
trees and branches piled in heaps, tree-roots, ladders,

* He is to be recognised as Mr. J. C. Squire.

136

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

etc. Such a routing it has not had for a hundred years.
I suppose it is right, but it is sad at the time, somehow.
The very thing I want to do with the public schools!
" In rather a sad and fretted hour before the
dawn to-day the following came into my head, I
don't know why — I seem to have taken leave of
poetry.*

" 'Tis my delight to weave bright words;
Sweet words, soft pauses to discover;
To sing, as sing shy musing birds,
Over and over.

Fly high, fly low, bright words and sweet,

So ye fly hence, I care not whither.

Where stream and field and sunset meet.

Fly thither, thither.

I am one with all sweet days that fade,

When night her solemn heart discloses;
I am laid where dying summer is laid
Among the roses.

Ah, shrill and sweet the bright words rise,

Like burdened bees from flowers that hid them;
Bid them be silent, O ye wise !
I dare not bid them."

" Magdalene^ February 19. — Woke early, much vexed
at having to go away again. No letters! . . . Went
pleasantly through to town, through a rain-soaked land-
scape, much flood-water out. Sent my things to club;
and then off to Paddington and ran down the familiar
line. We were soon at Slough ; and then the well-known
scene, which I have not seen for a year, began to unfold
itself; Eton, in its rain-splashed meadows, under a
bleared and hurrying sky, with a hoarse, muddy river
plucking at the osiers; every window and chimney and
tree and hedgerow known to me like my own body —
and yet there was I, looking out upon it absolutely
without emotion; rather pleased to know it all so well,
as a bird might fly over well-known fields, but neither
desiring to be back, nor regretting the past, nor wishing

* This lyric was included by the author in Selected Poems, 1924.

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

anything otherwise — with no feeling of tenderness or
sorrow, only glad to be out of it all. It was rather
degrading and discreditable; but still it is absolutely true.
Then I got to the Castle, was greeted smilingly by the
familiar police and flunkies; found Childers upstairs,
everything all exactly the same — the rooms very com-
fortable, and Miss Williams working away next door.
We did a lot of work, went right through all the strong-
room papers, looked at everything, and I went through a
whole batch of typewritten papers which had not been
gone through before. Then we lunched and worked
away quietly; then caught 4.25. The Dean in the
train.

** The panorama rolled past me again, with the same
insensibility on my part. Then up to London; and I
had a little talk with the Dean; drove off with Childers
and left him in Trafalgar Square. Then to the National
Club — read and wrote; and then found Gosse, tired and
excited, from a long day at House of Lords. He told
me that he had been praising my educational views to
Haldane. P. Lubbock to dine. . . .

*' Then we went and talked to Gosse in the smoking-
room; he was very brilliant and full of finished, amusing,
polished reminiscences of his father and the Plymouth
Brethren. Then Gosse fled; and Percy and I had some
more talk. . . .

" I read over what I have written about Eton —
perhaps I ought not even to put it down — ' Cast no least
thing thou lovedst once away '* — but I don't put it down
as to my credit, only record it as a fact that I don't, and
cannot, in thinking it over, feel the least emotion about
the place. I am simply glad my time there is over; and
I saw it as a man might see the galley where he had
rowed.'*

He managed so to arrange his work on the Queen's
letters that his presence was not again required at
Windsor; and this was to be his nearest sight of Eton
for ten years to come.

* William Morris.

138

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

" Sunday^ February 25. — Sleepy and stupid. I
preached in chapel; but the boat* had gone to
Hunstanton, so the congregation was very small. But
I had a pleasure, for Rogers came in to my rooms after-
wards, to thank me for my sermon. He is an interesting
boy. . . . Then I went for a walk with P.L. We found
Warre in the garden, in high spirits, trampling among
the flower-beds. . . . Then P.L. and I walked on, and
had a long talk about relations with other people — very
interesting. I have a sort of feeling, in discussing this
subject with him, that he has a kind of secret, hidden
from me, a secret which others share, in the matter.
Then comes an outbreak like Howard's about my
coldness, and I feel it more than ever. I asked him to
explain what he felt. . , . While he talked I half
understood, but with that half-comprehension which one
feels will slip away from the mind. To me relations with
others are in no sense unique; they are only one of many
relations, with waves and winds, trees and sunsets.
Then I am cursed or blessed with an ease of speech,
and give my intimacy easily, because, I suppose, it is
not sacred for me. Relations are not holy or solemn or
awe-inspiring for me — only pleasant or unpleasant; and
my tendency is to welcome in a congenial person very
affably, and to make the best of an uncongenial. But to
P.L. and his school, this is a kind of emotional harlotry,
I think. It was a deeply interesting conversation,
but left me aware that friendships, etc., were for P.L.
a series of deep thrills — exultations and agonies — while
for me they are only like flying sunlight on a bright
morning.

" But then I have a peculiar and fastidious horror of
my kind — I have often to leave the pavement of a
crowded street and to walk in the road from a horror of
breathing twice-breathed air. . . .

" I sate next to Warre, and I became gradually aware
that the awkwardness and coldness of the previous day
was only pure embarrassment. He talked freely, kindly,
pleasantly — and as the evening went on, got more and

• The crew, that is, of the college boat, in traioing for the Lent races.

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

more jovial, telling masses of very ancient stories. He
begged me to come to Finchampstead. What an odd
thing the man's prodigal greatness of temperament is.
He is neither eloquent, nor humorous, nor convincing.
He is an essentially dull man in mind. But he is a great
commander. We all floated, like little boats, on the
tide of his strength, deferred to him, tried to please
him, were grateful for his notice. The Professor, so
intolerant of most men, sate forcing loud and harsh
laughter over jokes which he neither heard nor
understood. We luxuriated in Warre's geniality as in
a glowing fire. ..."

Whether P.L. indeed committed himself so deeply
in the afternoon's talk can never now be known; but
the evening in the college combination-room, with
Warre expansive in ease and freedom, is very clear in
memory. So is also the sight of that fine old English
gentleman, " the Professor," infirm but indomitable,
rosily convivial, the sturdiest and most uncompromis-
ing of the pillars of the college: Alfred Newton,
Professor of Zoology and Fellow of Magdalene from
1866, until his death in 1907.

" London^ June 23. — ... I drove off to Athenaeum.
Wrote letters, and went to see the Blake exhibition.
Surely people must be cracked who make such a
fuss about Blake's little funny drawings. There is
some imagination in them and much quaintness. But
the absurd old men with beards like ferns or carrots —
the strange glooms and flames and tornadoes of vapour,
the odd, conventional faces, the muscular backs, the
attenuated thighs! Blake was a childish spirit who
loved his art, and had a curious naive use of both word
and line and colour; and some fine simple thoughts
about art and life. But he was certainly not * all there '
— and to make him out as a kind of supreme painter and
poet is simply ridiculous 1

"... I then went to the Academy. I enjoyed a good
many pictures, the landscapes mostly. The place was

140

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

not too full ; the portraits not so badly painted as of such
surprisingly horrible people . . . but the landscapes
were the best — the boiling over on to level sands in
a sunset vapour of great pale sea-waves — a dark fen-
like place of water and rushes with a gale blowing,
etc., etc.

'* Then I lunched; and went to the National Gallery,
where I revelled so long among the British landscapes
— such men as Glover and Nasmyth, such pictures as
Mousehold Heath (I don't like Constable!) — that when
I got to the Tuscan pictures I could only feel them absurd.
But of course all these things are only symbols of inner
raptures.

" I saw the new Velasquez. A stupid vulgar
picture; and I am entirely unable to believe it is by
Velasquez.

" Back to Athenaeum. Tea, read National Review^
and found a disagreeable attack on me, as a critic of
Eton, by X., the brilliant Eton boy — rather a friend of
mine.

" I don't like this — but it is useless to moan and think
other people prejudiced. I have said what I thought
about Eton very frankly, and I have somehow jarred on
these enthusiastic Etonians. But it is very odd to find
him say that I want to turn all boys into dilettantes —
when I think that is the very danger of the classical
system — which produces, I think, a few dilettantes and
a lot of ignoramuses. ..."

" Hinton^ July 7. — This morning I am all right
and very cheerful. Let me hope it was the thunder
which upset me — in any case it was very tvy'mg. The
heat is terrific. Letters and business most of the
morning.

" The great veronicas are in full bloom in the garden,
haunted by innumerable butterflies — such a pretty sight;
I shall always, I think, connect them with my first
memories of this place. Another very characteristic
sound here is the song of the yellow-hammer, which has
become very familiar to me; some sharp, sweet notes,

141

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

followed by an almost harsh, prolonged in-drawn note,
lower than the prelude.

** I went off in a south-west wind to Ely, and then on
by the most level roads to Prickwillow, a hideous God-
forsaken village in the flat — then on by Shippea Hill,
a little old fen-island, to the station called Burnt Fen once
(now Shippea Hill). It was all very tranquil and pretty
— the little black-boarded cottages and ancient pumping-
mills, with rich gardens, were highly characteristic.
I enjoyed myself mildly; train to Ely, where the
dignified stationmaster touched his hat and greeted
me warmly for the first time, having seen me, I suppose,
with Pell, and believing me to be a worshipful man.
Then slowly back; then I wrote a little study, " In
the Fens," for the Atlantic Monthly. I pleased
myself over this; it was pretty, I thought, and well
proportioned.

" It is calm, still, and hot; I sit writing by the open
window, the birds singing softly, while I wait for George
Lyttelton. Being in rather a melancholy mood, I have
thought much and sadly about Eton to-day. Not that
I wish to have acted differently in any sense ; I would do
exactly the same if I had it all to do again. But I have
got somehow into unhappy cross-purposes with what I
discern to be a beloved place, a sort of mother to me.
... I should like to sit on one of the towers and survey
it all. None the less am I thankful, deeply thankful,
to have done with it all ; in fact my mind is a curious blur
of mingled moods about it. . . .

" George arrived at 7.45, very big and robust and
smiling and serene — and we had a pleasant quiet evening,
though he surprised me by flying so early to bed. I
went much later, and had a terrible dream of the hang-
ing of some person nearly related to me at Eton; the
scaffold, draped with black, stood in Brewer's Yard; and
I can't describe the speechless horror with which I
watched little black swing-doors in it push open at in-
tervals, and faces look out. The last scene was very
terrible. Warre was there, rubicund, but anxious, in
robes, reading a service. The prisoner stood close to

142

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

me with a friend, holding a little prayer-book. I could
see his face twitch and grow suddenly pale. When the
long prayers were over, he got up and ran to the scaffold,
as if glad to be gone. He was pulled in at one of the
swing-doors — and there was a silence. Then a thing
like a black semaphore went down on the top of the
scaffold — (which was nothing but a great tall thing en-
tirely covered with black cloth) — and loud thumps and
kicks were heard inside, against the boards, which made
me feel sick."

" 7«/y 9. — Only a very few letters — but the little Life
of Keats came, and I allowed myself to read it — so much
of the morning drifted past. I do not know why, but I
find myself always in a strange excitement of mind when
I draw near to Keats in any book. It horrifies me to
read of the poky and vulgar people he lived among; and
he himself was so fine through all — so fine, even in
indolence and misfortune — so manly, in his own way,
though tempted by luxuriousness of nature — looking
through the mist with so clear and high a gaze. I can't
help feeling that this view of life, which he held and ex-
pressed, was truer in some way than his diseased, jealous,
fevered, tortured dreams; but why should the latter be
suffered to cloud the former.'' Why, if it is important
to the world to feel truly and to admire beauty, should
such a one as Keats have been made but to be over-
thrown? The ghastly suspicion of course is that God
is not concerned with the development of the artistic
sense in the world — or with the religious or even moral
development either, for the matter of that. Yet they are
there as truly as the physical and commercial instincts;
only God seems to favour none, to protect none.

" I found scribbled at the end of the Keats a bit
of a ten years' old journal, written as I came away
from Dunskey in '96. On the eve of such great
changes! It is only a note of landscape beauties, rather
thin.

" But I can't get the thought of Keats out of my head ;
I yearn after the kind of thought that filled his mind;

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because it seems to me — I say this without conceit — to
be one of the few instances of the expression of a man's
poetical and artistic faith that I meet with in literature
that I feel to beat every moment stronger, fiercer, deeper,
more intense than my own. To this he added the
supreme art of expression; and I daresay there are
hundreds of poetical and artistic persons who have
felt much more intensely than I — I only say I don't
find their confessions in literature anywhere — and I
would give a great deal for so frank a confession as
Keats's Letters give.

** The goldfinches in the shrubbery have delighted
me — they swing on the tall larkspurs and the m.ilk-
thistles. They flash about; they sing briskly — I can't
take my eyes oflF them."

Howard Sturgis and P.L. are next seen spending a
Sunday at Hinton; and if the guests were loquacious,
let a snapshot photograph, taken in the garden, attest
the fact that our host was not silent either. I may add
that P.L., on his recommendation, had just been
appointed to the charge of the Pepysian Library at
Magdalene, a post which he held for the next two
years.

** Hinton^ July 14. — In the afternoon we walked by the
fields to Wilburton, and looked at the church. The
scent and sound of the great lime-tree, full of flowers and
bees, came softly to us in the still afternoon. How
strange it is that the lime-tree smells so perilously sweet,
and yet that a single blossom has hardly any fragrance —
only a vegetable catkin sort of smell. Then along the
fen-road — and we sate long by a stream looking up to
Haddenham. I don't know what we talked about; it
was not talk — it was opening a sluice between two
minds. . . .

" After tea I worked a little and he sate out sewing and
reading till Percy came. We had a delightful evening,
but the worst of these days is that guests do take up
time; and my diary is written so long after that I have

144

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

forgotten all the details, all the funny stories, all the
delicious imitations, all the pretty flowers and leaves
we strawed in the way. Anyhow it was a very sweet
evening, and we went late to bed. It was E.W.B.'s
birthday; I did not forget that."

'* Sunday^ July 15. — The two would not go to church,
but I did most reluctantly. It was hot and dreary with a
small congregation. When I got back we talked on the
lawn, we talked at lunch, we walked on the road to Ald-
reth and talked all the time, we talked at tea. I can't
say what it was all about, but it was most interesting, mov-
ing about from one subject to another, like a leaf blown
by the wind. At 6.0 Howard proposed to leave me; we
had been talking since 12.0 on end — but Percy protested
that our time together was short. However, I made an
excuse. The truth is that a weariness, deadly, deep and
inconceivable, fell on me. I felt as if I would never be
able to talk again; and the thought that we might be
going on talking from 6.0 to 12.0 without a break was
simply intolerable. It seems to me exactly like eating
meal after meal. I do not only not like it; I loathe
it. . . . After all sociability is a pleasure, or supposed to
be one; and the pleasure of the whole thing simply flew
to shreds in a gale of fatigue. I did a little reading and
writing by myself, and was greatly rested; in reading and
writing the mind plods at its own pace and does its own
work. In talking it has to leap, to run, to race; and it
has, too, to be perpetually and swiftly apprehending
another point of view, which is fatiguing. I cannot
conceive how Howard can talk as he does all day, and
talk brilliantly and beautifully, too — and yet cannot
write a book. We did talk again all evening — but we
interspersed the reading of scraps out of books. Then to
bed — and Howard said in my ear, without exaggeration
or extravagance, I am sure, that he had not had so
happy a time for years. But this pleasant rapture was
spoilt by H. and P. lingering on the upper landing and
exchanging anecdotes, till I thought I should have
fainted. That is the worst of great talkers, that they

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

can't stop. How very ungenerous I am! I have really
enjoyed these days tremendously; but I own to some
fatigue."

*' Tremans, August 8. — Edward Horner arrived, very
tall, gracious, courteous, pleasant. . . .

** I left him to himself all the morning, and found that
he read a Greek play. Then we went off to Lewes by
the 1.40, he in Panama and flannels, so much taller than
myself. It was very hot and we had neither of us
watches; so we walked fast; the grass of the down was
slippery walking.

" We talked a great deal about Eton. I have
never heard, since I was a schoolmaster, a big boy
talk with more absolute freedom from the boy's
point of view, and yet with much perception and
sympathy. . . .

*' Certainly somehow the walk will remain in my mind
as a very beautiful and memorable thing. It passed
swiftly, like a dream. We sate for a time on Ditchling
Beacon; and then to the windmills; it was not too hot up
there, but as we got down to the level, fierce heat fell
on us; we got to Hassocks station with but four minutes
to spare. I don't know why I enjoyed it all so much.
Yes, I do; because here was an absolutely ingenuous and
modest boy, entirely frank, giving me, not a peep, as often
happens, but a steady look, without any self-conscious-
ness or pose, into a very charming, natural, good, honest,
sweet-tempered mind. He is not a deep speculator, he
is not hard-headed, not critical, not very poetical —
nothing in particular; but he loves life and people and
things of interest; and then too he has the charm of man-
ner, voice, glance, gesture, that one can't analyse, but
which is there, and is so fugitive a thing.

" My interest takes two forms; one to retain his
affection — because he evidently is really fond of me —
and the other to give him good advice, which I faithfully
did! The pleasure is that though it is getting on for
two years since we met, and though I did not know him
very well — at least I found it hard to make way with

146

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

him — yet he has kept up relations all along, and at the
most changeable, oblivious and fickle time of a boy's life
— and now proposes of his own accord to come here.
I find it ver}- difficult to say quite what I feel; and yet I
don't think I shall forget the soft green sides of the
beacon, as we sate in the grass, falling steep to the plain
and the woods and the tiny hamlets — and how the sun
filled all the hollows with a golden dusty light. The
plain was merged in haze.

*' We got home by seven. I went and scribbled a
little. A quiet evening; E.H. very unwilling to go to
bed — but somehow when he talks and smokes he
becomes a different being from what he has been
by day."*

" Magdalene^ October 24. — A great pleasure, a letter
from John Morley, who, by H.M.'s command, has read
over Volume I, complimenting us sincerely, generously,
and gravely on the excellence of the work. A great
relief and a deep pleasure. . . .

" I forgot to say that I had a delicious experience the
other day in seeing a covey of partridges near Wilbraham
drop over a hedge and settle. I stole up, and had
the pleasure of watching them for some minutes at home
— through the hedge, not a yard away, lying, feeding,
sitting, piping. Such a pretty family party — and one
shoots them! I am giddy and stupid this morning —
but much amused by Punch — which attributes to me the
Apocrypha and Shakespeare's Plays^ and says they will
shortly be issued under my name, with a characteristic
preface — and that I am engaged on a work of sombre
thoughtfulness, called At a Safe Distance. This is really
very funny, and I find myself giggling over it — but one
must take care not to be too much in evidence.

" I went out very unwillingly to lunch with Keable.
There was a silent young brother, and another man
called Gray. I jested, and without difficulty, though I
was giddy and uncomfortable — and then rushed off to
vote for the new Mathematical Tripos. It was an odd

• Lieut. E. W. Horner, i8th Hussars, was killed in action, November 21, 1917.

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

scene. There was a gathering of about 400 people,
circulating slowly. Some very picturesque figures. The
Master of Trinity in a skull-cap, carrying voting tickets
in his cap as if soliciting alms; he had written them
all on the wrong papers 1 . . . The Vice-Chancellor sate
in his cope in the throne. I had many amicable talks,
mostly with Masters of Colleges — Pembroke, Corpus,
Christ's and King's. I tried again and again to escape,
but was caught by lobbyists at the door. Robin Strutt
employed direct mendacity. Barnes wept tears, Ship-
ley seized my sleeve and pulled me, not heeding my
struggles, and Lady Darwin (I think) gave me several
blows. I stayed nearly an hour and enjoyed it very
much, though the system of voting is a vilely wasteful
one. We carried all our points. J. W. Clark, rubicund
and busy, wrote the figures on a blackboard in the
gallery. The Proctors were inaudible, and there was
little or no enthusiasm.

" I must record an amusing fact. Yesterday at my
lecture I spoke of Shakespeare's plays being attributed
to Bacon; there was a loud laugh — unaccountably so. I
now see that most of the men had seen Punchy where they
are attributed to me. . . .

** Then I came in — no longer giddy — and wrote a
long educational article. This morning I did a lot of
work on the Q.V.'s Letters; and discussed the organ
plans with Kett. So it has been a busy and pleasant day,
full of variety and amusement. ..."

The Eumenides of Aeschylus, with Stanford's music,
was performed at Cambridge this term. Mr. A. F.
Scholfield, now (1926) University Librarian, took the
part of Orestes. The statuesque appearance of the
herald in the final scene was long remembered; this
small part was played by a freshman of King's, Rupert
Brooke.

" December 4. — We went to the Greek play. I
took Sympson and Mallory, and we had the best places
in the house. The Bishop of Ely just behind us, who

148

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

was most polite; many scraps of talk with old friends;
Selw)'n of Uppingham, most cordial, pressed me to go
and stay there. O.B. was a sight of horror, so leering
and gross. The play was very impressive, the music
beautiful. I saw it over twenty years ago. I wept
copiously when the Furies first burst into song in the dim
temple. Orestes was excellent, so tired and despairing,
but both Apollo and Athene rather pompous. A herald
made a prett)- figure, spoilt by a glassy stare. The final
procession most beautiful. But the play itself struck me
as incomparably bad and stupid, like a dull and affected
fairy-tale. I am always disposed to think the victory
lies with those who perceive; but these ugly blood-
sucking Furies, pursuing a man to eat him, in a dull
mechanical way, bought off at last by an absurd promise
of privileges, and thwarted by the votes of ten idiotic
old men presided over by a goddess — could fatuity go
further.'' I can't think what the Athenians were
about."

In December he paid a visit to an old friend and
Eton colleague, the Rev. Lionel Ford, Headmaster of
Repton — afterwards Headmaster of Harrow, and now
(1926) Dean of York.

'* Repton^ Sunday^ December 9. — Called in an orange
dawn; a furious whirl of sleet came over — it was a fine
frosty day. I watched the boys coming back from early
chapel, while I dressed — in tall hats; they look like Eton
boys. Then came Lionel in great majesty, stepping
delicately, every inch a headmaster. Breakfast — and a big
strong, cheerful, jolly baby arrived, nearly two years old,
to be viewed. He took an immense fancy to me, and
sate on my knee all breakfast, playing with my watch,
helping me to eat, smiling at me. . . . Then to chapel;
the boys standing outside in rows to talk in the cold;
masters in gowns and hoods. It is a poor little building,
but the woodwork good. I sate next L.F. in a kind of
pew with stalls under the gallery; the gilded angels with
trumpets, supporting the organ, quaint and pretty — this is

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i9o6] THE DIARY OF

Tom Carter's work. The service nice, not very hearty;
the behaviour of the boys perfect. Indeed both last night,
and still more this morning, I got a very strong impres-
sion of a sort of simplicity, freshness and purity about
these boys. Last night their courtesy and attention were
marked; there was no sort of discipline kept — it was all
spontaneous and unaffected courtesy. To-day the man-
ner of the boys in chapel was ideal. I did not see a single
whisper, a single act or sign of irreverence. Yet it all
seemed natural and spontaneous, not drilled — like the
well-born boys of a good, virtuous and well-bred family.
The perfection of manner — better than Eton, because
more simple and less superficial. Perhaps it is hard to
judge, but they also gave me a feeling of great manliness
and good tone. I would send a boy there with great
confidence.

" Then after an interval, in which I wrote letters, we
lunched with the boys — eighty in number — in L.F.'s
house. The place must be well-arranged, because one
would never know there were boys so near. The place,
a big hall with many tables; Stratton carving far down
the room; L.F. and 1 sitting with prefects at a high table.
This again was nice — a delightful boy next to mc, like
the best kind of Eton boy, perfect aplomb, and yet
simple, courteous, agreeable. A clever, smiling
creature opposite. Talk easy. We went afterwards
to the House, conducted by Smith-Roose, the head
of the school — again, such a nice creature. Went
into many studies and shook hands with many
boys. . . .

" Then L.F. and I went a walk. . . . We talked easily.
I came to the conclusion that L.F. is one of the happiest
men I know. He is at the head of his old school, an
unquestioned influence with boys and masters. He has
pulled it up, he has put it on a good basis, he has got a fine
and beautiful tone to prevail. He is healthy, happy,
modest; he enjoys his work; he is most happily married
to a delightful, capable, accomplished, affectionate wife;
he lives in a beautiful house, and he is not overworked.
If this is not happiness, what is } Add to it a contented

150

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

and not over-energetic constitution, so that he enjoys
leisure. . . ,

" (Next morning). — I woke early, but not dejected.
Heard the boys stirring faintly above as they dressed for
early chapel. Almost wished myself a schoolmaster
again; and indeed if I were robust, untouched by years,
sound in nerve, there is nothing I should like better —
except perhaps writing; but I would not really go
back."

'' Hinton^ December 16. — Pitiless rain, which is
yet so cold that it does not melt the wet waxen
snow. . . .

" I expected Lapsley to lunch, but the cab returned
empty. I read the Browning letters — and went to see
the Vicar . . . but he was fled. Went for a solitary little
walk, not unhappy, to Wilburton, on frozen, sloppy
roads. What went moving through my thoughts like a
strain of music was the memory of the love of Browning
and his wife. The letters are marvellous — so gasping,
so incoherent, so affectedly depreciatory, yet they set the
heart aglow, because the real thing is there, the love
' because I am I, and you are you.' It is a thing which
many people feel, very few can express. Of course it is all
transcendentalised and intellectualised in these letters —
but that is the central flame. What would I not give, I
thought, for such a love! How have I missed it.-* I
suppose the answer is that I have had my share and more
than my share of fine things — and I have somehow missed
my way among them. . . . But the more I grow to feel,
as I do, that no personal identity survives the grave (yet
I cannot bear to give up the hope) the more I desire but
once to have the great devotion. That is the worst
of imagination. It makes one feel as if one could
experience it, while I think in my heart that I am not
capable of it.

" Lapsley came to tea, having missed the train and
driven from Cambridge. He seemed in good form,
and we had a pleasant, rather academic talk. He
seems to me to be really rather swamped in academical

151

i9o6] THE DIARY OF

things just now. It is inevitable; but I don't like to
see so finely tempered a sword used to chop firewood.
Still he is doing a great work, no one greater; and
to cut, one must have a narrow edge. But he seems
a little withdrawn from me thereby. I am glad to
have him here. We talked briskly enough all the
evening. . . .

" I have been doing a lot of little odd jobs. I have
sent off my hymns to be printed in a pamphlet, made up
my accounts — my income for the year has been well over
;^3,ooo — written up letters, sent off some Q.V. proofs,
arranged papers, etc., etc. This has amused me; but
there is something wrong with me and my head, which
swims and fails. I woke early this morning, plunged in
gloom. I was foolish enough yesterday to do some
more writing, and I wrestle and pray for new ideas.
How little it matters to anyone else, how much to

" Tremans, December 31. — Last night Luxmoore*
touched me much, when I said how happy we had been
with him, saying * Bless you! how good you have been
to mel * This morning he went off to stay with the
Duke of Wellington. I felt like saying good-bye to an
old and dear relation. . . . Hugh arrived; and I had a
little call from Beth, who could not abstain from going
to look at his room. She has a love for her last nursling,
which exceeds her love for any of us. I went to see her
before dinner, and said I would send him up afterwards,
which made her light up with keen delight. Dinner
pleasant enough — and some disjected talk afterwards cut
off by prayers, with general alarums and excursions.
Hugh and I played the piano and organ a good deal. I
am in a feeble and discontented condition, quite off the
lines, I don't know why. My fertile mind, instead of
accepting it as a passing phase of tiredness, forecasts the
worst. I made up my mind to-day to have a stroke of
paralysis, and to spend a few crippled years in a sort of
heavenly resignation. But I can't disguise from myself

• Mr. H. E. Luxmoore, his friend and colleague for many years at Eton.
152

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1906

that I have been in very indifferent health for some time,
quite inefficient and run down.

*' So ends 1906. It has been a prosperous year. I
have made a sort of name as a writer, and amassed much
money. Magdalene has flourished greatly. I have
made some new friends. I have not regretted my
decisions. If I had been well, it would have been a very
happy year indeed — in so far as success in a chosen line
is happiness. If I subtract from it all the dark mood in
which I write, the year would be and ought to be one of
my most tranquil and fortunate years; because it would
seem as if Providence had wanted to show me that I
did right in keeping clear of Eton by loading me with
little successes.

*' But I seem to be tending nowhere in particular.
My desire is to write a great and beautiful book — and
instead I have become the beloved author of a feminine
tea-party kind of audience, the mild and low-spirited
people, who would like to think the world a finer place
than they have any reason for doing. Well, I don't
doubt that if I were a bigger and a better man I should
have more to say — but I am petty, timid, luxurious; and
so my faculty of writing runs to waste in quiet pools.
What I desire is more reality and more courage; to find
some reservoir of strength and patience to draw upon.
But one cannot make it — one can only be given it — and
it is not given me! Yet I do earnestly desire a more
excellent way, though I am sadly adrift. ' I have gone
astray as a sheep that is lost: O seek thy servant — ' but
I have no right to finish the verse. I have followed my
own will in everything — and I have excused my weakness
and perversity by saying that I am made so. The world is
a difficult place; and when one walks in a vain shadow,
as I have done of late, it is rather a terrible place; yet it is
beautiful, sweet, delightful — and one seems to realise
that more, year by year — and yet to be kept from joy
by a hard, fine, transparent and impalpable veil. The
only thing that remains with me at this moment as a
bright little ray is the delightful and warmhearted
letter Lapsley wrote me. ^Se /aire aimer,' he quotes,

'S3

i9o6] ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

' cest se jaire utile aux autres ' — yet never did any human
being feel less capable of inspiring love than I at this
time — a half-contemptuous pity, perhaps, but no more;
because my suffering, such as it is, is a purely morbid and
self-centred suffering — the darkness closing in upon the
flickering flame.

" Let me close the year with a prayer —

" Ostende mihi spiritum tuum! "

154

1907

The shadow of depression darkened gradually, lifting
at times, settling down again, through a year of much
anxiety. It was a baffling affliction, and he could
never discover how best to treat it — whether by dis-
regarding it, staying at his work, following his normal
round, or by breaking off and changing his ways and
resting as well as he might. He tried the first method,
and things wxnt better for a while; he got through two
terms at Magdalene with fair composure. But the
strange anguish returned — like a raging toothache in
the mind, he used to say — and he tried to take a real
holiday in the summer at Hinton, forcing himself to
idle at ease and waste time like other people. He did
his best, he wrote as little as he could bear to write;
but the habit of indolence was so unnatural to him,
it required such an effort to maintain, that it seemed
to leave him only more exhausted than before. By
the autumn his mood was so heavy that he found he
could not endure the term at Cambridge. He
appealed to his good friend and patient adviser. Dr.
H. Ross Todd, who prescribed for him a few weeks
in a nursing-home in London, and then a holiday
abroad. He went to Italy in December, taking P.L.
with him for a companion, and spent a month in Rome
and Florence; but neither was this unusual adventure
— it was more than ten years since he had last left
England — of much avail to him in his pain.

Nothing from without had seemed to cause it, but
it was sorely increased by a grief which fell this

^55

1907] THE DIARY OF

summer upon himself and his family. His sister was
struck by a far more disastrous malady of the mind;
and for the next eight years the slow and uncertain
fluctuations of her condition were watched in deepen-
ing anxiety, with the hope of her recovery continually
deferred. There is no doubt that Arthur's dismay
under his own affliction, his perpetual dread of the
future, was much intensified by the thought of his
sister's illness; but in fact there was no likeness
between the two cases. The clarity of his mind was
never affected; at his worst he always knew himself a
sick man in an enjoyable world that he could no longer
enjoy. Yet, while the trouble lasted, he could never
believe that the next trial of his nerves would be
surmounted as safely as the last had been, and before
every fresh effort to be made he foresaw calamity.

A bright mark in the summer was the conclusion
of his four-year-long task on Queen Victoria's letters.
The three volumes were published in the autumn;
and if by that time he could take little interest in their
appearance, it was a deep relief to have got them off his
hands before his condition made work impossible. He
wrote, or rather he finished, no other book this year,
but his weekly articles in the Church Family Newspaper
were continued until the autumn.

In June, 1907, Professor Newton, gallant and
genial and tyrannical to the last, died at Magdalene.
His house, the Old Lodge, standing within the pre-
cinct of the college, was offered to Arthur Benson, who
decided to move thither from his rooms in the Pepys
building. But he had hardly made the change before
his health took him away from Cambridge for the
winter, and it was not until the following year that
he was settled in the house which he was to occupy for
the rest of his life.

" Magdalene, January 31, 1907. — I reflected sadly to-
day how I tended to squabble with my women-friends.
Here have I dropped out of all or nearly all my feminine
friendships. I never see Lady P., I hear nothing of

156

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

Countess B. I have lost sight of B.M. I have insulted
M.C., alienated Mrs. L., shut up Mrs. S. — and so on.
Yet I do not squabble with my men-triends. ... I have
had rows with Howard, but he is more feminine than
most of my friends. I think it is a certain bluntness,
frankness, coarseness, which does not offend men, but
which aggravates women. The thing which has tended
to terminate my women-friendships is that at a certain
juncture they begin to disapprove and to criticise my
course, and to feel a responsibility to say disagreeable
things. One ought to take it smilingly and courteously;
and one would, if one liked the sex — but I dont like the
sex. Their mental processes are obscure to me; I don't
like their superficial ways, their mixture of emotion with
reason. One's men-friends never criticise, they take
one for better and worse. One gets plenty of criticism
from foes, and one supplies the harshest condemnation
oneself. My own feeling is that one's duty to a friend
is to encourage and uplift and compliment and believe in
him. Women, I think, when they get interested in
one, ha'^e a deadly desire to improve one. They think
that the privilege of friendship is to criticise; they want
deference, they don't want frankness. I don't want to
excuse myself, because I think it is a vital deficiency in
me; but it is so vital and so instinctive that I don't see how
to cure it, and I cannot even frame an effective desire to
do so."

** Magdalene^ February 2. — A curious day. It was
bitterly cold. Ward came at 10. o, and I dictated twenty
letters, mostly to female admirers. They are very
curious documents, these long, intimate and familiar
letters from unknown people. My instinct goes rather
against them, but I don't see that it is really worse than
talking frankly at a dinner-party. To-day, however,
there are two very strange documents. One a long,
charming letter from an Australian girl . . . twelve
pages of really rather beautiful writing — very informal,
very full of youth and zest. And one mysterious letter
from an American widow, who implores me, as a man of

157

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honour, to keep her letter secret, and hints at establishing
a sort of secret understanding ! I reply by a stiff dictated
letter — feeling the dusk rather unwholesomely fragrant.
Then Grimble to lunch — and we discussed freewill and
necessity over a warm fire. Then Shipley came, and
we rode stoutly by Waterbeach and Landbeach. He
complained of the pressure of his work; but he enjoys it,
he fingers many pies. I sate down to write . . . Then
Molar Cole* dropped in, bearing Europe on his broad
chest. He discoursed on things fiscal, and I chanted
cheerful responses. So the time fled away; and at 8.0 I
drove off to King's, to dine with Monty. This was an
interesting party, Owen Hugh-Smith, Caryll Lyttelton,
Carey, Neville Lyttelton, Lady L., Miss L. I took in the
latter, a pretty and charming girl to whom I rather lost
my heart. But the dinner-table was so big, the food so
elaborate and slowly served, that my miseries fell upon me ;
and it seemed that my own bewildered thoughts tangled
and blurred the clear thread of my little companion's
ideas. She, Miss L., became pale, tired, nervous. I
wanted to amuse and interest her, but I could do neither.
I am not fit for society just now. One of my horrors is
that I hear my own husky voice talking, and seem for a
moment to be out of the body, listening to myself,
wondering what I shall say next. I had an interlude
with the General, who was next me; full of the most
robust and genial life. . . . He told me that the Duke
of Cambridge had once said to him that he had been
discussing a certain person with papa. * The Archbishop

said ' — said the Duke — ' He is the d dest old fool

that ever went on two legs! ' * His Grace's own words,'
the Duke added. Also that the old Duke of Cambridge,
the father, once stayed at Hagley, and was present at
family prayers — he sate with his hands on his knees,
beaming. At the end he said to Lord Lyttelton, ' A

d d good institution.'

" Then we went off to the drawing-room, where Carey
sang divinely some songs of A. Somervell, that made me
nearly weep. The General played patience. ... I drove

* A. C. Cole, sometime Governor of the Bank of England, died in 192O;

158

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

away with Carv'll, as charming as ever; we passed the
proctors ranging mysteriously, and chuckled to think he
was sinning by driving in a cab. I came back gratefully
to my rooms. The odd thing is that an evening like this,
with its mixture of interest and discomfort, does not
tire me at all. These nerves are tiresome things — they
leave me well and strong for ordinary purposes; but
they settle like vultures on the things that in my normal
condition I enjoy most, and spoil all sociable things
for me. . . .

** Only for a few minutes to-day have I had a sense of
peace and joy — as we rode slowly in silence along muddy
roads, with the huge flat about us, bounded by the low
far-off hills, great golden rays streaming down from
banks of purple cloud. It seemed then as if one could
live a sweet and solitary life in the country silence — but
one could not! That would drive one into morbid
gloom. One must go in and out, and bear the fret and
fume — though I felt as though I could have sat at a
window, looking out over the huge pastures, down to the
glowing west, with line after line of dyke and hedgerow,
and asked for nothing but to be left alone and quiet,
living passively and serenely, like grass or thorn. How
I hated the thought of Cambridge at that moment, the
packing together of lives and ambitions and relationships
— I seemed to want nothing but to sit idle, breathing the
frosty air. ... I would not live one moment of my life
over again; and, as I say, I would like the memory of it
all to perish, and the very spirit within me to be blotted
out. Yet, strange to say, with all this, I feel myself to
be tough and vigorous in body; and no less so in mind.
I feel indeed as if it were my very vigour and vitality
that make me suffer as I do. If I were simply languid and
mute, I should think differently — but I am full of ideas
and interests. I am fevered rather than feeble, like a
strong man with a broken limb. To-day I have written,
dictated letters, thought, talked, worked with an energy
which I used not in the old days to possess. I can't rest
for a moment; and my distresses seem to me to be rather
the nervous weariness of over-energy than the collapse of

1907] THE DIARY OF

weakness. And then behind it all lies a curious sense
that there is something left for me to do — what, I cannot
divine. Well, it is a strange mystery. If I am wanted,
I shall be sent; if I am sent, I shall go. At present I seem
to be held back, bound, fettered — and I hobble along
feeling my chain.

" The place is full to-day of highly ridiculous men
come up to vote, pleased with their gowns, full of mute
affection. An absurd Archdeacon, in fur coat, tall hat
with strings and rosettes, gaiters, silk gown, purring
along. But I hear to-night that the SUaio? Aoyo? has
prevailed, and that the Mathematical Tripos is to be
reformed. There is a faint hope of better things in this
— but it will delay the ejection of Greek, I fear."

The " Byron portrait," mentioned in the next
extract, was a painting which he had discovered and
bought in a dilapidated condition some years before.
When cleaned and repaired, it was found to be a
portrait of great charm and beauty, but the painter has
never been identified. It was reproduced in Mr.
R, E. Prothero's edition of Byron's works (1898), and
now hangs in the hall at Trinity.

" Saturday, February 9. — Hunting came, bringing
the Byron portrait. Every time I look at it the
beautiful soft eye of the charming boy seems to regard
me reproachfully for giving him away; but he ought
to be in Trinity. Hunting also brought in loads of
garden produce, carefully packed, which he sold to
a greengrocer, and brought me the price ruefully —
Ss. 6d. ! . . .

" At 7.45 I drove off to Pembroke, found the Master
— looking pale and sad, I thought — and Mrs. Mason,
by themselves. But a collection of buffers and bufferesses
streamed in. I was the only unimportant person
there. Wilkinson, the beloved Primus, looking so
strong and plump, with a touch of colour in his cheeks,
and with the same wistful and fatherly meekness; a
beautiful figure, aged 74, with his cross of amethysts.

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ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

The Master of Trinity, very bland, paler and more
brushy-haired than ever — Mrs. Butler, very small and
grey and demure — Donald and Lady Alba, Lady Loch,
Stanton, Mrs. Selwyn, Miss Wilkinson, and W. O.
Burrows, now Archdeacon of Birmingham, as neat and
good and brisk as he was when I first knew him at Eton
thirty-three years ago, and where he was so good a friend
to me. I took down Miss W., a bright, cheerful girl,
very proud of her father, and ready to talk about
their busy life. I also had a good gossip with Lady
Alba. . . .

** The most dramatic moment was when the Master of
Trinity, in the middle of his soup, was overtaken by a
sudden and violent sneeze. He held one hand over his
face. His spoon plunged into his soup, while he felt
with hurried dignity for a handkerchief. It seemed to
me like a picture of Blake, like God, in the Job designs,
sneezing. Then the loud, sonorous, and unctuous Amen
that he chanted in response to the Master's grace. . . .

'* Ah, there was one great moment I had forgotten,
when, after dinner. Mason handed round Gray's big
commonplace book, with his own MS. of the Elegy.
That nearly made me cry, it was so great and so authen-
tic. I notice that he spells the word Huswife — and that
the Ode to Music originally began —

Awake my lyre, my glory wake —

altered to ' Aeolian lyre,' I suppose because the other was
too scriptural. Not a very lively evening, but a sense of
being in touch with some big people. The Primus
rather abashed by academical distinction; he lay smiling
while the Master of Trinity told long rotund, gracious
stories all about nothing. Such an evening is all on the
surface. No one says anything that is not decorous,
commonplace, dignified — no peeping into hearts or
minds. I came back and sate up late writing and
reading — and slept rather ill."

" March 2. — A soft, mild day, very languid. I wrote
and dictated letters. Donald looked in, and I went with

L 161

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him and got my codicil witnessed. I put this down
because I have had a strong impulse to complete my
arrangements. If it were to be a true presentiment, it
is worth stating; if not, it will do to be amused at in the
future. I dictated a long letter to one of the ingenuous
spiritualistic ladies who write to me, who tell me the
absurdest stories, and wish me to be instantly converted
to spiritualism. . . .

" Dove, the steerer, lunched with me; I expressed my
hopes that there would be no row to-night. I can
honestly say that the one day in the year when I loathe
being in Magdalene is the last day of the races. One
never knows what these inconsequent young men may do.
Why I dislike a row so much is that three-quarters of the
fun of it is that the Dons are thought to object; and here
we are on such easy and friendly terms with the men that
the jest is a rude and offensive one.

" I wrote some more letters, and then went down to
the boats oppressed with sighs. The infernal Literary
Society dinner hangs heavily over me; moreover the days
fill up with engagements, so that I really hardly ever have
a perfectly quiet normal day here. I don't seem able to
help it — people ask one so long ahead that there is no
escape.

" I got down about 3.30, and saw some of the racing;
but I was alone and met hardly anyone. Very few dons
about, and the young men seemed to-day to be unneces-
sarily young. . . . Then back, where I wrote a little
rather feebly, and sent off a packet of letters. I am dining
out again, and would it were midnight and all well! It
is all very well to say that one should not be timid and
anxious. God knows that one does not want to be; and
perhaps in the dim hereafter it will be seen to have
been useful and fruitful; but one can't see it now; and
not only do the obstacles depress one, but one's
own lack of courage in facing them is more deplorable
still.

" It was misty to-day, and the sun broke in soft flame-
like orange on the ripples of the stream. How beautiful
if one had the heart to enjoy it ! Then it clouded over

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ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

and a whispering rain fell, which I hear rustling in the
yew-tree, a peaceful sound.

" Well, I went to Trinity to my Club. It is very odd
that I, the least clubbable of people, should belong
to so many of these symposia — four or five. The Club
was there, Lapsley, Foakes-Jackson, Laurence, Barnes
and I. Our guests, the Master of Corpus, Cunningham,
Walter Durnford — the latter very gouty. We had a
sumptuous dinner and drank fine claret. . . . All pleasant
and easy, and I had abundance of nice things said by
the Trinity men about the Byron portrait. I enjoyed
myself and had no c?-ise — I believe I am improving. But
gloom fell on me at the thought of going back, and what
might be happening at Magdalene. The great court of
Trinity was full of uproarious undergraduates racing
about, hooting, putting the lamps out. . . . The streets
were quiet, and Magdalene, mirabile dictu^ was absolutely
quiet save for a few belated revellers standing about, one
or two the worse for liquor. But I don't mind that! I
don't think it does any harm for a cheerful, warm-
blooded undergraduate, after a course of training and
rowing hard, to talk and sing and drink too much at a
bump-supper. ... I sate quietly for an hour, read and
wrote; thus does one afflict oneself in vain."

He was now elected a member of the old-established
dining-club called the " Literary Society'." For the
rest of his life, excepting the years of illness, he
attended the Society's monthly dinners in London
with much constancy.

''March 4. — I got off about 2; in the train I
had the strength of mind to look over essays for
Wednesday. I went to the Athenaeum, hating the idea
of the [Literary Society] dinner, and all the fuss, and
spent a teeble time there reading and turning over papers
and magazines. ... I went up to the smoking-room on
my arrival, and there was Stanford playing bridge. He
has just refused to write an ode, setting my words to
music, for Repton, on the ground that he has not a

163

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moment to spare till May. . . . He played bridge till 6,
when he came over and talked to me. He reiterated his
statement about having no time. He said, not very
gracefully, that to compose such a thing meant a lot of
work, sketching it out, writing it, scoring it, copying it:
* Ye can't dump it down on a piece of paper like a
poem, my boy.' He looked well, but very pale — though
handsomer than of old, I think — rather a fine
expression.

'* Then I drove to Lambeth. . . . Dressed, and went
off at 8.30 to call for the Archbishop at the Athenaeum,
taking with me his dress-coat. I found him there, all
eyes, very full of talk. Met Austin Dobson and Basil
Champneys, also bound for the dinner. Drove to
Prince's, Jermyn Street — rather a Pompeian place, heavy
gilding, etc. Found a company gathering in a saloon,
and was introduced to Spencer Walpole, the historian, a
kindly and genial man, and many others. When dinner
was announced, I was led in, like a blushing bride, and
sate next S.W. in the seat of honour. . . .

*' The dinner was good and elaborate — much cham-
pagne. I was much at ease, and had no nervousness at
all, though I got tired. A man went round and collected
our shot; we paid, I think, lis. These great people are
pleasant and easy, and I think rather more interesting
than the ordinary don; but it was very like a high-table
dinner up here. They were very kind and welcoming to
me, and made me at home. ..."

" Hinton, April 19. — A long and interesting letter from
P.L., to whom I had sent my big book. Diary of Artist^ to
look at. He does not approve, and says so. I had hoped
he would have discerned a figure v/ithin, lying in how-
ever cramped a position. He praises my style, but tells
me that I have not concentration or thread enough, and
that by too sedulous a pursuit of the sweetness of beauty
I miss its nobleness; so, too, by looking too close for
tranquillity in life, I miss something grander — something
harsher, rougher, and more dark. This is all both
beautiful and true. But I don't think one can resolutely

164

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

set out in pursuit of the uglier kind of beauty. I don't
think I am made to discern it. I see sometimes, at a
concert, by their faces and exclamations, that my convives
have admired a piece of music that has been to me
nothing but desperate and hideous clatter and bang.
Well, am I to go on hearing such things, trj'ing to
persuade myself that it is fine?

" As to the rougher, harsher, nobler aspects of life, I
see the crags and precipices of it all; but with fear and
dismay. 1 cannot write of it — and as for searching for
the tragic in life, I do not believe in climbing into dizzy
places if one has reason to think that one will be dizzy
there; it ends in meekly tumbling and toppling down.
Of course it all depends upon how likely one is to topple
and tumble, whether one likes the risk or not, whether one
is intoxicated by the earlier elation. I am not; I am
ambitious, but both timid and indolent; and I think that,
this being so, I shall do better to spend my time in
pointing out nests in hedges to unobservant people —
the little effects of unobtrusive beauty which I see and
which most people overlook — than in scaling the
crags. . . .

" I worked very hard between tea and dinner, and
wrote no less than four pieces — 4,000 words, I think;
The Librarian and The Cathedral Tower for the prose
lyrics, and Augustus Hare and a reflective passage about
Motives for Solitude. Dinner; reading; bed. I was
overshadowed, but only dimly, by the misery of pitching
my tent again. Slept sound."

In April he took his usual holiday with Tatham
— this year at the King's Head, Cirencester. The
pilgrimage to Kelmscott, the home of William Morris,
recorded in the following extract, was repeated more
than once in later years.

" Cirencester^ April 5. — The weather has recovered it-
self again ; a hazy mackerel sky with a light breeze. After
writing many small letters, etc., we bicycled off at 12.0 for
Fairford. The road there uninteresting. The church

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is finer than I had expected, rather solid, of an orange
sort of stone — very late Perpendicular. It stands at the
end of a pretty little piazza of quaint houses. Inside it
is a wonderful place. The windows are marvellous —
most of them familiar to me from the book of reproduc-
tions we have at home; the faces of the old saints and
patriarchs, as E.W.B. used to point out, so ugly and full
of character as well as humanity — so different from Mr.
Kempe, and still more from the rabbit-jawed type. I
care less and less for the archaeology of things, and more
and more for their beauty. These old mellow pictures,
rich as the wings of butterflies, many of them half oblit-
erated, fed and satisfied the eye ; but I doubt if they would
have had much beauty when new. There is a whole row
of clerestory windows of the persecutors of the Church,
people like Nero and Domitian — and a most singular
humour displayed throughout in numberless demons,
green and brown and blue, covered with scales, with long
tails and noses like augers, all as merry as grigs and
tormenting souls with a will. An unhappy child sits in a
kind of churn, being diligently churned by a cheerful
demon in blue. The panel representing hell seems to
me purely humorous, but I suppose it fed the sense of
awe and horror once. Very little anywhere which could
appeal to one's emotion — except a sad soul, looking out
of a barred window, in a grey rock, through a waft of
flame, while the Saviour comes along below, conterens
portas aereas. . . .

" Then on through rich, flat water-meadows to Lechlade,
another charming place of old comfortable houses of
many types. . . . The sedged river, with the fragrant
smell of the river-water bubbling through the sluices,
into a pool where a teal was diving, made up for me
a scene of great sweetness — so English, so serene,
so utterly unaffected. Then on by a rough road to
Kelmscott. We found it, a little hamlet of grey houses,
in the middle of the alluvial plain; save for the low hill
opposite, and the charm of the gabled and Georgian
houses, it might have been in Cambridgeshire. More
than one pretty dovecote, gabled and stone-tiled. Then

166

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

at last we saw, at the hamlet-end, the house which is so
familiar to me from pictures, and which means a great
deal to me. It was much simpler, more rustic, more shy
and wild than I had expected. It is an incredibly
picturesque house, with innumerable wings and gables,
mullioned, stone-tiled; with some variety of style (e.g.
little pediments over some attic-windows), stone balls
on the gables. It is much shut in by outbuildings and
walls, and the byre of the farm with the barns comes up
quite close to it. The old farm-buildings are very
picturesque too, and the rough ditches, the farm-lumber
ever)^where, the willow-patch, the poultr)^ all about, add
to its unaffected air — a house meant for use and comfort-
able life, not at all for artistic reveries. We wandered in.
The farm-men ver)' courteous, but we were refused
admittance, though Mrs. Morris was away, very peremp-
torily by a tall, grave, polite man who was digging gravel.
Still we got a view of it all round, and peeped in at a
garden door, seeing some of the shaped yews Morris used
to clip; the standard pear-trees — flowers coming up in
the borders, bays, box-hedges — all very sweet and simple.
... It certainly has an extraordinary beauty, because it
looks lived in and worked in. I should have liked to see
the tapestry room where Rossetti worked. But I have
no great lo-ve for either him or Morris, though I have a
romantic admiration for the definite, clear-cut, beauty-
haunted lives they led. Something of Morris's own love
for the kindly earth, and the simple country' business,
hung over the whole for me. We could see the river
making its loops in the water-meadows a furlong away.
. . . The rooks were noisy in the elms, and the spare
sunshine, with the big white clouds in the sky, gave it
all a wholesome beauty, though I should like to see
it in summer foliage.

*' We went to the little church, a sweet place, of many
styles. . . . One thing vexed me; in an angle of the tran-
sept outside sate a rather pretty young lady in black, and
a group of silly children, rather dressed up, in pinafores,
were being photographed by an artistic gent — all holding
their arms up. This gave a sense of sham aestheticism,

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which spoilt the entire simplicity of the scene. ... It
pleased me to think of Morris striding bluffly about
here, loving everything on which his eyes rested, full
of go and zest and country happiness. This was a
very memorable hour to me.

" Then off by a hideous rough road, which struck
off from Lechlade to Hatherop , . . and so to another
enchanting place, Bibury, a village nestled in a steep
hollow by a clear stream. . . . Then home against a
strong headwind, through Barnsley, and so down to
Cirencester.

" The sight to-day of a huntsman in scarlet having a
mug of ale handed up to him at an inn-door by a smiling
girl made a pretty vignette. But as I sit now quietly after
tea, recalling and sorting my impressions of the sweet
things I have seen, I am filled with the old melancholy
wonder as to what it all means, why one should love the
home, the earth, the scene so passionately, while one
knows that one is speeding into the darkness. ..."

" Magdalene y April 2 j^. — My forty-fifth birthday. For
I think the first time in my life I had not a single line from
anyone, or a single word on the subject of my birthday—
by the last post, however, a little letter from Fred. This
shows that one gets older and more isolated. It was
what is called a beautiful day, warm and soft and sunny
— a day on which, coming after cool weather, I feel as if
I should burst; my arteries beat, my head is heavy. But
it was kindly micant, I doubt not. I worked hard at proofs
all morning, and finished a great batch. Then Lilley
came to lunch, and was very nice; such a fine fellow in
his quiet way. Then I rode with P.L to Newmarket;
the air full of wild scents and woodland odours, and
every bush and wood shot with green. We ran through
Newmarket and on to Snailwell. Newmarket, a vile
town; the little boy-jockeys everywhere, with gaiters and
pert faces, fill me with a sort of terror, and the big rich
houses are horrible. By train to Cambridge, and so
home after a pleasant ride, full of inconsequent talk.
Then some writing. . . . Then Hall, with Bellars and

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ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

P.L. My new sconces in the gallery lit up, as in my
honour. Then to my rooms — a thoroughly quiet
normal day, such as I dearly love. I have practically
decided to give myself a present — a motor. I think
I am rich enough; I should not hesitate to start a
stable.

** I suppose I ought to be in a devout and solemn mood ;
but I am not. I have enjoyed the day, and I don't mind
being forty-five. ... It seems a very short time since my
twentieth birthday, when I was an undergraduate; and I
am very much the same person as I was then. I think
that my chief ambitions then, if I had any, were to get
some money for the sake of liberty, and to win some
literary success. I have both. The former seems to
give me very little liberty, the latter is very different from
being what I expected — because I have got the ki^c^ of
literary success, a popular success, that I certainly never
expected, and I am not, what I hoped to be, reckoned
among literary artists. The strange thing is that my
schoolmastering period seems utterly wiped out of my
life, as if it had never been. ..."

" Whit-Sunday^ May 19. — What incredible folly one
gives way to 1 I have spent a miserable twenty-four hours
since yesterday at 1 1 .0 when I consented to preach. Why
miserable,'' I don't know. I had a neat typewritten
simple sermon ready. I had only to stand up for ten
minutes and read it out to a congregation of some twenty
people, all of whom I know, and whose opinion I do not
really regard. But the thing has hung over me like a
black cloud. A fear of breaking down, of turning faint,
of hurrj'ing out, etc., etc. I have enacted a dozen
possible scenes over and over. My sleep last night was
broken with fearful dreams — a huge function at Eton,
which I was to address. ... A vast, incongruous party
was assembled. Last of all papa came in and was very
gracious. I waited and went away with him, and he was
in his easiest, simplest, most loving mood; he suggested
a walk, that we might have a long talk; * It is such an age
since I have seen you, dearest boy,' he said — and smiled.

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Then the recollection of the function which was then
proceeding, and probably waiting for me, came on me,
and I ran from him in stricken haste, while he waited
smiling by the gate.

"So it went on all night — waking in misery; but I
got a good deal of sleep. Of course it shows that my
nerves are a good deal in rags. Then I read a little,
breakfasted, read more — and went in feeling fairly cheer-
ful. But in the middle of the service my terrors came on
me, and I felt I could not stand it — my legs quivered, my
voice became husky. Then came the hymn. Then my
own voice making the invocation. And then I read the
whole sermon, clearly and strongly, with due emphasis,
without a touch of nervousness, gazing benignantly
round — and it was that performance I have dreaded for
twenty-four hours! Yet no amount of deriding myself
as a fool, or even the prudential thought that fretting over
it was the very thing to bring the catastrophe about, will
help me. . . .

" Simpson came in to lunch — pleasant and intelligent
— and we talked on many matters. I don't quite under-
stand the lie of his mind; but he is fond of good literature
and austere books. Then I went out, really feeling
rather tired. It was cold and fresh, but with gleams of
sun. I went along the Backs, and how I hated the
good-humoured, ugly, shoving, noisy democracy! I
turned into King's garden and walked there a long
time round and round. The place is very beautiful, and
always suggests to me paradise. The way in which the
lawns run in smooth inlets, in and out of the shrubberies,
the edges of the beds all fringed with a foam of flowers,
is very sweet. The real misfortune is that the garden
has fallen into the hands of a botanist, whose idea is to
cut down trees and do everything for the sake of having
specimens of flowers, with names on tin labels. It is
like turning a country-house into a school. . . .

" But I felt somehow that I was nearing the end, or
near the end, of my tapestry of life. I have used up my
strength, such as it was, and my reserves. I am tired,
and my only way of fighting tiredness is to tire myself

170

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907
afresh. It takes people in different ways, and that is my

ly.

" Hinton^ June 28. — Many letters and proofs. We
started to bicycle at 12.0. My bike punctured in the
drive; but we had out the motor at once and flew to
Ely, only to find that our train only ran on Mondays —
so there was an ebb! The motor had gone when we
discovered our loss — and so we took our lunch, walked
by the river and hired a boat. We rowed, or rather
Mallory did, along by deserted wharves, grass-grown
and melancholy, by cottage gardens and willowy islets,
to a place where the Cathedral stood up over the orchards
like a crag; and here we lunched at our ease and discussed
absolute beauty and the beauty of Gothic architecture
in particular — about which I am gravely sceptical. Then
caught the 2.0 train to Lynn and went on to North
Wootton. I liked the great rich flat pasture fields by
Lynn, with the big thorn bushes and elders, and still
better the wide marshlands to the north with the flood
banks, over the big sands and creeks of the Wash, with
their splendid and romantic names — " Stubborn Sand "
and " Great Black Gat," &c. Here we decided for
Castle Rising. We walked through North Wootton,
and tried to order tea at The House on the Green, but
were rejected, and felt like the Apostles with the
Samaritans. Then a charming common, with sandhills
and fern and fir-trees opened before us, full of poultry that
ran to be fed — and so by a sequestered lane to the village,
the great keep peeping through trees. We trespassed
here and had to climb a spiky gate. Ordered tea at a
nice inn and went up to the Castle. It is simply enchant-
ing: a huge moat, full of nettles and clinging elders,
with the great grass-grown mounds all about: then a
bridge, and you find yourself in a sort of cup-like hollow
in the top of the great green hill, where there stands a
Norman keep, unroofed but extremely perfect. . . .
It was very grand inside, and gave one a sense of an old,
rough, ugly, full-blooded life. The thing I remember
is the growth of mallow, borage and snapdragon. From

171

1907] THE DIARY OF

the top a fine wide view over the tree-tops. Mallory
made me shudder by jumping lightly up on some ruinous
masonry, with a sheer drop of 60 feet beyond, to look
at the view. Then we got down and had tea out on
the lawn — but had no time for either church or alms-
house. At the latter the old women wear red cloaks
with Howard badges, steeple-crowned hats, high-heeled
buckled shoes, and are ruled by a Governess,

" It was pleasant out there on the lawn; but we were
hurried — flew back to the station over the pretty sandy
common.

*' A horrible old woman in the train, like a bishop.
She had put a great tin trunk in the corner seat, and was
wrapped up closely, though the heat was suffocating.
At intervals she drank brandy. But I could not wholly
hate her, she seemed so anxious and sore-stricken at the
perils of the journey, and so resolved to safeguard her
own health and comfort. A great solemn face with
twitching brow and oppressed eyes. Then there was a
sickly school-teacher, reading Geo. Meredith, with a
violin. . . .

" We were soon at Ely — and flew back by motor.
I read and wrote a little — even breaking out into a sonnet,
which I suppressed. Then dinner, music, and a little
talk. It has been a quite perfect and delightful day, a
day in a thousand — full of pretty sights, little adventures,
and all filled and rounded by easy simple natural affec-
tionate talk with a delightful boy who seems at his ease
with me and treats me like a good-natured uncle. ... I
don't quite like being used as though I were so harmless
and old — I feel so young and rash! At least quite as
much, if not more so, than I used to feel. He told me
that I was looked upon as a kind of " ghostly father "
to the whole college — a person, I suppose, of mild and
amiable ways, always ready (it seems) to pour out pious
advice. I don't feel as pious as I am thought to feel,
certainly! — nor quite so mild and tame. However, it
was intended as a compliment, no doubt.

" I hate his going away, and have a great desire to make
the most of these beautiful days. One does not often

172

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

get the society of an ingenuous and congenial young
man, who is also sincerely affectionate, to oneself"; and
perhaps it is rather a dangerous luxury. Still it has
beguiled my depression in these gloomy days as nothing
else could have done; he has walked with me as the angel
walked with Tobit."

" Hinton^ August 5. — Rather an indistinct day. Fine
and hot, though storms predicted (Bank Holiday).
Spent much of the morning in clearing up accumula-
tions. I can hardly believe that I have been here about
two months and done so little. I do not suppose I
have worked so little for years. Went off at i.o.
The swallows at Earith were sitting on the telegraph
wires in hundreds, the wires quite bent with the weight.
I rode to Somersham and Chatteris, lunching by the
wayside close to a huge plant of dead-nettle with purple
flowers, covered with peacock-butterfly caterpillars —
black, pointed, writhing things. At Chatteris I drank
and explored the hot dull yellow town. There is one
huge house in it, like a suburban mansion, the kind
of place I remember in Richmond, yellow brick, with a
pediment — but the drive is grass-grown and the garden
all weeds: the Rectory^, I think. Then out towards
Stonea, and finally got to the Ireton Way. A good many
Bank Holiday people about. Just beyond Mepal there
was a party lunching by the roadside, a respectable
tradesman, I should guess, and his family. Two of
the girls shouted impudent rude things to me — incredible
manners. The English middle-class expresses its joy
of heart by being rude. That is our idea of
geniality and humour. . . . Home to tea — in
mildly good spirits, after a feeble melancholy morning,
making plans and devising how I should live in every
house I passed. To turn the old factory at Mepal into
a phalanstery with a court and water-gate is my present
plan.

" But I am not sorry to go; I have had a bad time on
the whole here, and have been chastised with scorpions.
I hope I am a little better — I don't know.

173

1907] THE DIARY OF

" I wrote a study of Newton last night — and shall
finish it to-day, I hope; it is a little photograph rather
than a picture of the man.* — I have finished it — a big
bit of work — and I find myself writing with extreme
ease.

" I went up to dress and looked out over the peaceful
pasture, with the old reedy fish-pond and the willows
in the centre. The lowing of cattle, the barking of the
bailiff's dog, the only sounds. It would be a sweet place
if one had a contented spirit or a quiet mind: alas I have
neither — and I find myself craving for some near com-
panionship, some enduring love, to help me along. But
that I have forfeited, and one must just fare onwards
as one can.

" Chatteris was ' emptied of its folk this summer
morn ' — but the Eastern Counties Democracy are
lacking in grace. They make holiday in an ugly way —
nothing Athenian about them."

" Tremans, Sunday^ August 18. — This morning about
8.15 began a creaking and rustling outside — someone
moving about as if everyone were ill. I could not sleep,
and so lit my candles (the room is so dark) and read.
Then came more and more cautious arrivals, rustling
and creaking — one would have thought that there must
have been twenty people. Then a celebration in a room
four feet by three. ... I don't under-value the
feeling under it; as I said before, it is a symbol, and
anything does for a symbol if one is ebullient enough, I
don't mind their doing it, and I wish them to get what
raptures they can; but yet there was a sense, when I
came down to breakfast, of their having been engaged in
some virtuous exercise, " playing at holy games," as
Rossetti says, while I was rather reprobate. . . .

" The day is hot and wet, a steep rain falling out
of the sky; the house like a vapour-bath; everything
unutterably hot and languid and stuffy. It is partly that,
and partly also a real disgust at life and its pretences
which breeds these wholesome reflections. One could

* Included in The Leaves of the Tree.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

hold one's tongue about such things, of course; but it
does not make them worse to write them down. . . .
To me, the further I search, the wider spreads the desert

and the dimness. But and seem to me to build

themselves nice little houses and to say, " This is all ;
see how nice the rooms are, with the curtains well drawn;
there is not anything outside." But if one says, " What
do the windows look out on? " they say that the pattern
of the curtains is so prettv' that it is a pity to draw them,
and that artificial light is really better for the eyes. And
then if one does twitch the curtain aside and see the
ghastly glimmer of the formless twilight fading on the
leagues of sand — well, one can't well return to the wall-
papers and candles, however much one may dread and
hate the desert. . . .

" After lunch L. went to see Beth, and I found him
there with the dear old lady, showing him her gallery,
which extends over seventy-three years! — from Bolton
Abbey to Tremans, What a beautiful life it has all
been, and how vain to say that it has been achieved by
any sense of exercising her ivill — only by a natural beauty
and lovingness of heart and mind."

** August 24. — A letter from Gosse, asking me to
come and see him. ... I lunched and corrected proofs
in the train. Then walked straight to the House of
Lords through tortuous streets, ending up with the
Abbey. What a funny place the Abbey is ! It is very
noble, in its darkness and mistiness, but spoilt for me, I
confess, by the crowds. The monuments fill me with
delight — the more absurd they are the more I love
them. . . . The statue of Wilberforce interests me; if it
were of the wickedest man that ever lived, a man
satanically cynical, it would be said to be characteristic.
Then some of the recent burials; a president of the
Institute of Civil Engineers — I had never heard of him
— has a huge brass on the floor, where he appears in frock-
coat and trousers. Street, the architect, is buried there;
he kneels by a crucifix in an Inverness cape. And yet
the Dean won't allow the smallest memorial to Mrs.

175

1907] THE DIARY OF

Browning! It is the rooted distrust in the English mind
of an artist — you must do something else as well. Was
there ever anything so ridiculous as the reputation of John
Morley, a man who has written a few fairly good books,
whom we are asked to regard as a great man of letters !
The Abbey is so interesting because it reveals the topsy-
turveydom of the English mind so completely — the
worship, not of the people who will last, or whom others
will hold to be our ornaments, but the man of the hour,
the representative of privilege and rank.

" I went to the House of Lords. I had never seen
so many peers about in those stately rooms and corridors.
They buzzed like a wasps' nest if you push a stick in.
I suppose they feel like that, and almost smell the fuse.
I found Gosse in the library — a blazing fire, and
three or four very shady and dickey-looking peers
smoking. . . . And these are the brightest jewels in
Britannia's crown, enshrined in all their lustre in
these padded cases.

** I went off with Gosse to his private room, where we
had a very interesting talk — about books, letter-writing,
authors, his new book and a dozen other matters. That
dark room, with its mullions and the glow of the electric
lights on the shining red leather chairs and sofas with
their gold portcullises, will long remain with me. He
took me down to see the library vaults — such a mass of
rubbishy books. . . .

" Then I went to see Murray, but found him out;
had my hair cut by my literary barber, who discussed the
Queen's letters with me. Back, walking, to the National
Club, where I had tea, wrote letters, finished off
proofs; and from there / sent off the last proofs of the
Queen s Letters. A little river-wrack, so to speak, of
individual pages will return to me — but the book is now
doner

" Skelwithfold^ October 3. — Woke to much wretched-
ness of nerves, agitated and unhappy; but this cleared off
when I got up. It was a fine, soft, sunny day. ... At
12.30 walked down to the gates, and found the Hays

176

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1907

waiting in a smart blue motor. ... It was pleasant
whisking along the steep, leafy lanes, with fine views
flashing out every minute. We got into a road parallel
with Coniston lake, and were soon at Brantwood. It is
now a very big, pleasant, irregular house, of white
rough-cast, ingeniously contrived to climb the hill, with
a roadway taken under a fine simple arch at the back.
It reminded me very much of Tan. The idea of a big
luncheon-party was oppressive, but I ended by really
liking it. Mr. A. Severn came out to meet us, a hand-
some, rather whimsical, amiable, leisurely man. . . .
Dear Mrs. Severn, stout, fuzzy-haired, kindly, with a
motherly smile. We had a big and long lunch. . . .

" Then I had a beautiful hour. Mrs. Severn took
me ever}'where. I saw Ruskin's study, with the chair
and the round window looking out over the lake, where he
sate, his writing-table, his presses and bookcases of
mahogany — the things all solid and not a bit artistic.
Here was the Richmond portrait, and a very little, most
interesting water-colour of him by himself. I took down
many of his MSS. — and she showed me a book in which
he collected Greek mottoes for the days of the year. I
found on my own birthday the motto, euv yap koi iropevOw*
— I don't recognise it — but it had a very beautiful
significance for me in my present mood, like a word out
or a wise and fatherly heart, bidding me journey on.
Then to the drawing-room, with some fine drawings of
his own. Then upstairs to his first bedroom, with the little
octagonal turret, by which he could see the view all
round, and then to the little plain room where he died
— his mahogany bed, ugly white paper, bookshelves,
and the walls hung with priceless Turners, with the
W. Hunt picture of grapes in the centre, and a funny
sketch by Ruskin p^re. Mrs. Severn told me how he died,
sitting up in bed; two days before he had been perfectly
well. She cried a little as she told the tale. . . .

*' Then I strolled alone, through copses and lawns,
and out on a grassy terrace with a noble view of the lake
and the great cirque of mountains. I was glad to be

• From the Sep tuagint, Psalm xxiii, 4: "Yea, though I walk ..."
M 177

1907] ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

alone. The whole place incredibly beautiful; the sun
just touching the ^reat flanks of the hill with gold. . . .
Ruskin lived here for the last twelve years without ever
leaving it.

" Mrs. Severn came out to find me; we went back,
saw J.H. manoeuvre the motor with a sense that it was
the only thing worth doing; and then came kind farewells,
and we whisked off. . . .

" It has been for me a very sacred and beautiful
pilgrimage indeed, coming in this overshadowed time —
and I shall long remember the house, and the hazy hills
across the lake in the warm soft sunny afternoon. . . .
I rank to-day among the memorable days of my life; and
I was glad that for the time being I was in perceptive
spirits, and not overtroubled by my little miseries. I
suppose I am better than I feel ; but in this soft air I seem
to be invincibly languid — iuv yap koI TropevOw.'"

178

VII

I908-I909

He remained under the burden of his depression for
nearly two years more. During all that time, though
company and occupation could bring an intermittent
relief, there was no day on which his mind was free
from the torment of his malady. It was difficult for
those who saw him, talked to him, travelled with him
while he was in this condition to understand what he
was enduring; often there seemed to be little amiss
with him, in body or in spirit, and he might appear to
be only more pensive, less gaily interested in the world
than usual. His diary, which throughout this attack
he still continued to keep, is a strange revelation of the
dark fears and agonising pains that were concealed,
with much considerate fortitude, from all but a few
of his most intimate friends. Even they, perhaps,
may hardly have suspected how dire his sufferings
were, and how perpetual; yet the truth of his account of
them is attested by the eagerness with which he records
from time to time a more hopeful day, a few hours
of ease, some distraction that he was able to enjoy.
It was an affliction that changed and varied from
one moment to another like a physical pain, now
lighter for a space, now heavier, now sharp to the
limit of endurance, and its caprices appeared always
unaccountable.

Divers methods of treatment were tried, under the
advice of Dr. Ross Todd — travel, idle country-life,
seclusion and rest in a nursing-home; but at length it

179

1908-9] THE DIARY OF

was judged best that he should return to Cambridge
and to so much of his normal occupation there as he
could force himself to undertake. And so in the
autumn of 1908, after a summer spent mainly at
TremanSj he took up his abode in the Old Lodge at
Magdalene, and made a gallant attempt, not without
success, to carry out his usual engagements. But
there was still another year of the same distress to
be endured before he began to be conscious of any
lasting relief; and meanwhile he daily believed himself
to be on the brink of disaster — not death indeed, for
which he fervently prayed, but madness. There was
in fact at no time any real cause for such a fear; but he
could never be reassured, and hundreds of pages in his
diary are filled with the record of deepening and dark-
ening apprehension. At last, towards the end of 1 909,
the cloud began to lift, the misery strangely and
swiftly to abate; and within a few weeks he had
passed from utter despair to the full height of his
customary vigour and happiness. His recovery was
almost as sudden as it was complete, and to himself the
ending of these long woes seemed no less mysterious
and inexplicable than their beginning.

There is little to be quoted from the volumes of the
diary in which the tale of distress is followed from
day to day. For most of the time, at Tremans, at
Cambridge, or in the company of a friend at some
country-inn, his outer life went forward much as usual;
but he could only write of it with the constant iteration
of his lament that all was pain and darkness within.
Those who have suffered the visitation of this form of
neurasthenia will understand, I suppose, the nature of
the ache which gnawed at his mind; to those who have
not it can never be made intelligible by description.
The period covered by the anguished chronicle shall
accordingly be passed over very speedily, with a pause
upon two days only — two days on which it happened
that his trouble was lightened for a while. Such days
there were now and then, always noted and recalled
with gratitude in the diary, but the peculiar experience

180

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1908

described in the first of the following extracts was not
to be repeated for many months.

" Tremans, December 21, 1908. — I came down rather
nervous and jumpy, but really felt somewhat better. I
read a book, The Shadoivs of Lije^ by A. D. Sedgwick;
but these books of emotion and the sufferings of different
temperaments, good and evil alike, harrow me fearfully.
Can the people who write about suffering have ever really
suffered? — with the long-drawn desperate suffering in
which I have spent this year-f* It seems all too bad to
write about. ... I wrote a lot of letters and walked with
M.B. — unpacked my burden somewhat, not morbidly,
but pensively. . . . What I can't bear is to be told
that I am behaving ' splendidly.' My sense of decency
and courtesy has just enabled me to hold on, but I have
been a horrible coward all through, and a selfish one as
well. Hugh came to lunch, very full of life and spirits,
and his account of his doings made me writhe at the
thought of my futility. We walked out in a damp, warm
mist, and argued furiously about religion and science as
usual. . . . Then after tea — rather a limp meal — I went
off to try and write, expecting my usual collapse. To my
surprise and joy and intense relief I found myself,
instead, flooded by a sense of happiness and contentment.
I can't say or describe the blessedness of the hour. It
may only be a little variation of my wretched state; but I
found my serenity, my interest, my enjoyment suddenly
and miraculously restored. I felt like a convalescent,
too happy even to write. I just sate in a blessed peace of
mind. Of course it won't continue thus — but can it
possibly be the turn of the tide? I dare not think it;
but I do thank God with all my heart and soul for
withdrawing the dreadful cloud from my brain, and
allowing me to live again for a little. ... I won't
dare to anticipate. I only record that to-night, for
the first time for months, a ray of real hope has
darted into my darkness; and I will try to grope my
way out, not forgetting the days of my imprisonment
and despair."

181

1909] THE DIARY OF

This promise of hope was not yet to be fulfilled; but
he was occasionally able to find some enjoyment in a
country excursion, with his motor-car and a friend,
and his exploration of the English landscape was
continued in many regions, to the west and the north.
After the visit to Italy, already mentioned, he went no
more abroad. In Rome and Florence he had been
diligent in sight-seeing, not without interest, but he
never again had the least inclination towards any scene
more exotic than Dunster or Broadway, Ashbourne or
Settle; these and their like were to satisfy him for the
rest of his life.

''Ludlow, June 7, 1909. — A good night; woke cheerful.
A long and enthusiastic letter from Marie Corelli. To
Bridgnorth, by the Clee Hills. A pretty town, with a
leaning fragment of castle. Two churches ; both the upper
town, sitting on its steep ridge, and the lower town across
the Severn are picturesque. . . . Then on to Wenlock
— a beautiful ruined abbey in a kind of wild garden,
with a wonderfully picturesque house at the side. The
garden was beautifully kept, and the place lovely; but I
don't really like a ruin — there is something of the corpse,
of the skeleton about it, a sense of death. ... So by
Craven Arms, and saw Stokesay Castle on the right,
charmingly picturesque and sedate, over its orchards.
The whole day was sunny and sweet, the air fresh and
fragrant, and I had a faint sense of enjoyment and peace.
After tea the indefatigable Ainger proposed a stroll, and
we went to the Castle — saw the roofless hall where
Comus was acted, and many noble ruinous chambers.
As we went out a flock of sheep, who had been grazing in
the grassy court, were driven out by a shepherd-boy,
and made a pretty scene. In the evening I was tired, but
cheerful. Ainger is a delightful companion, so quietly
kind and fatherly. I like being commandeered by him,
and love to see the diplomatic way in which he does what
he likes best (not that I have any counter-preferences)
under the impression that he is consulting my wishes all
the time. . . . He never makes any allusion to my being

182

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1909

ill, but takes for granted I am well and happy. In fact
mine is a mysterious state; I eat and sleep, look well, can
do most thintrs without fatigue, but all the time carry
about this awtul dragging weight on my mind. A quiet
evening, and I slept well.

*' A very touching and affectionate letter from Howard
Sturgis, and another from Henr)- James. Yet they but
serve as fuel to the flame of my sadness. I seem to have
missed all the best things of life, by my miserable
self-absorption and perverse indolence."

The months still dragged on in unhappiness, and
when he returned to Cambridge for the Michaelmas
term, his mood was as dark as it had ever been. In
October he opened a fresh volume of his record with
some messages of gratitude to his friends, " as this will
be, I cannot help thinking, the last volume I shall ever
complete of my diary." Within a month the change
had begun. At the end of the year he spent some days
at Tenby, with Ainger and Mr. and Mrs. Edmund
Gosse, and he was then able to admit, to them and to
himself, that he was well. Some sixty or seventy
volumes of his diary were still to be completed, before
it was finally closed.

VIII

I9I0

And so, with joy and energy redoubled, he took up
all the activities of his life again at the point where they
had been interrupted by his illness; he gathered the
threads together without losing another moment, and
was immediately as deep in his various occupations,
as busy and harried and hustled as he had ever been
and as he loved to be. His diary through it all is still
copious; but it becom.es from this time forward
increasingly difficult to give an adequate picture of his
days by means of selection and quotation from the
row of grey volumes. Discretion, no doubt, begins to
hold the editor's hand more pressingly; though as to
that, and to the nature of Arthur Benson's freedom of
criticism in his diary (which by this time was kept in
much greater privacy than of old), there will be more
to say on a later page. But the hastiness, the breath-
lessness of the pace at which it was always written,
with many a scene of interest too slightly and sum-
marily touched on for effect; and the large space occu-
pied, naturally enough, by local affairs, college business,
academic transactions, from which the freshness of
their importance has long departed; and the inevitable
repetitions, day by day, in the record of a life so
straitly confined to its regular round: all this must mean
that his later work at Cambridge, during the years
when it was at its height of felicity and success, can
only in part be illustrated from his own pages. And
for that reason some brief account of the tenor of his

184

—I <
2

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

life at Magdalene — ^which was hardly to be changed
henceforward, while he kept his health — may be given
in this place.

The Old Lodge, when he took possession of it, was
a modest, some might have said an inconvenient and
a cheerless dwelling, with its unsunned rooms and
shrubbery-smothered windows, shaken to its founda-
tions every hour by the omnibus that thundered down
the narrow street. But to Arthur Benson his own
belongings were always admirable, and the Old Lodge
pleased him from the first as a " stately little mansion "
— his favourite phrase for any house that took his
fancy. He proceeded to embellish and enlarge it in
accordance with his highly eclectic taste. He was able
before long to acquire some adjoining tenements, and
with much ingenuity in adapting, contriving, adjust-
ing, he finally produced a house for which he claimed,
not unreasonably, a surpassing merit. It was at any
rate a house that could have been devised, and perhaps
inhabited, by none but himself. It had a great room
like a college hall, with a gallery and a high-table; it
had a tiny cloister-court, choked to the throat by a
jungle of giant-hemlocks; it had an outlying congeries
of small sitting-rooms, largely unvisited; it had a
walled patch of garden, in which there were no flowers,
only a grove of sycamores and a thorn-thicket. His
own rooms were on the ground floor, facing the north,
with a mass of lank dank bushes pressing almost
against the window-panes. The inner decoration of
the house was not less original than its design. He
took a lively pleasure in its appointment and adorn-
ment, he invented and directed every detail; he filled
the whole of the available space with a singular dis-
play of personal relics, scraps, mementoes of his past,
the accumulation of many years ; and he surveyed it all,
when it was finished, with amusement, with com-
placency— and also, lastly and chiefly, with complete
indifference. His possessions, well as he liked them,
warmly as he commended them, had in fact no hold
on him whatever.

185

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

The visitor, entering his crowded and book-lined
little study, found him seated in an armchair by the
window, a writing-board on his knees, hurling his
letters as he finished them into the post-tray by his side.
Here, unless business called him forth, he spent the
morning. A colleague might drop in to ask a
question, an undergraduate would appear with an essay
to be read and criticised, or perhaps a casual caller,
little suspecting how he would presently be chastised
in the diary, might present himself unannounced; but
the master of the house remained in his armchair,
falling again upon his correspondence after each
interruption, never pausing or hesitating, covering
page after page with his free and agile script. Nothing
could persuade him to reduce this daily labour, a great
part of which was purely gratuitous, required of him
neither by friendship nor by duty. For when he had
written gay and talkative effusions to several friends,
replied in generous measure to a dozen unknown
admirers, despatched all the business entailed by his
multifarious occupations; when he had answered all
the answers to previous letters of his own; when he had
lavished his best on friendly testimonials, recommen-
dations for preferment, offices of all manner of kind-
ness (he was unwearied in these things, and admir-
able in tact and wisdom); still he would bethink him
of yet other calls, other openings for more letters that
might and should be written, and that were written
there and then — so impossible he found it to detect a
reason for writing and not to write. More than once
he tried to learn how to use the services of a secretary,
but in vain — he liked the use of his own hand too
well. Wherever he went, through all his so-called
holidays, he carried the chain of his correspondence
with him; he would never admit that he hugged it
with enjoyment, but that was the fact.

At one o'clock, still writing for dear life, he was sur-
prised by his luncheon-party. This was an event of
the utmost regularity. On every day, very nearly, of
the term, throughout the years of his residence at

i86

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

Magdalene, two or three undergraduates of the
college were bidden to lunch ; all had their turn, all were
plied with his sociable genial unfailing talk; and the
record of the diary — in which the manner and habit of
his guests is perpetually noted — is there to prove how
seldom they were plied in vain. The young men were
most friendly, most conversable, most delightful ; their
host has said so innumerable times, and it is easy to
believe him. Few people, young or old, ever left
Arthur Benson's table without a modest consciousness
of having been a little more delightful than usual. In
this way he made at least the acquaintance of every
undergraduate who passed through Magdalene in his
time, and a real friendship with very many; and since
the college was now, under Donaldson's reign, steadily
and rapidly growing in numbers, it was not a light task
to keep abreast with the stream of newcomers. His
pleasure in it was increased by discovering a special
young friend and companion among them from time
to time; one who was both to him in these years,
George Mallory, has been seen already, and others
will be encountered before long. It was naturally
Magdalene that occupied him first, but his circle
was always widening, and chosen spirits from other
colleges often appeared in it.

The party knew better than to linger when the hour
was over. Whatever the season or the weather, in the
dust or in the mire, in the blaze or in the blast, their
host must be off at the appointed moment for air and
exercise upon the road. He took a friend with him or
he went alone, he walked or he bicycled; in any case the
excursion must exactly fill the afternoon. If the east
wind blows and it begins to rain miserably, and you
happen to be near home at half past three, still you
must turn away and take a further round, or you will
find yourself indoors before tea-time. If it is a
perfect evening of summer, and the shadows are falling
cool and fragrant between the hedges after the glaring
day, still you must leave them and hurry home, for at
half past four he must be sitting down to write his

187

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

chapter. These rules were absolute; his companion
might raise a cry for a little more or a little less, but
never with any hope that the concession would be
granted. In due course he is seated in his dark little
room, his back turned to the radiance of the evening,
the golden light upon the college lawns, the glow on
the old mellow roofs and turrets above the orchard
by the river; and of just such a scene, very likely, he is
writing a page of charming description, but the whole
summer passes without once tempting him forth to
see it with his eyes. Cambridge or the depths of
the country, term or vacation, it was all one. He had
the deepest and truest delight in all the beauty of
nature, for just two hours of the afternoon; he could
seldom be persuaded at any other time to give it a
glance.

Meanwhile the pencil was racing from page to
page, the sheets were accumulating. At the last
possible moment before the dinner-hour they were
bundled together, crammed into an envelope and
despatched to the typist. If he had left himself five
minutes in which to make his toilet, he was ready in
time to sit down at his organ and improvise a slow
sweet dirge-like strain before the college-bell rang out.
Then in his great bellying silk gown he stepped forth,
passed through the court — (tall and immense in his
great gown, rubbing his clasped hands together,
breathing gustily, his head bent forward as he moves
with that curious pad-footed prowling walk, as though
he were threading a jungle) — he crossed the college-
court, smiling a greeting at a cluster of undergraduates,
and arrived, a little late, to take his place at the high-
table in hall. And then after dinner there was a session
of the company in the panelled combination-room
upstairs; and over port-wine and coffee, a pinch of
snuff and a cigarette, there was an hour of the best of
his talk — not over-serious, not tyrannous, never local or
professional — the perfection of conversation after a
comfortable dinner. But he had had enough of it
when the party broke up; and then he liked to go

i88

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

home and work a little in solitude, even read a little —
though in general he read books only in bed, during his
frequent wakeful nights, devouring a volume or two
till sleep returned. Lastly, to close the best kind of
day at a late hour, a friend or two should drop in for a
game of cards.

That was the day he preferred, the typical day; and
save that he constantly dined out, in other colleges and
at many a house of friends, it was a day that he had
enjoyed repeatedly since his settlement at Cambridge.
He enjoyed the like of it as often as he might to the
end. But as it now became known that he was in
health and at work again, his engagements outside the
college began to increase rapidly. He took or resumed
his place on several educational commiittees and
boards in Cambridge town and county, and his week
was once more sprinkled with meetings faithfully
attended. Before his illness he had already been
nominated a Governor of Gresham School at Holt, in
Norfolk; and this appointment was the beginning of
his long and close association with the City Company
of Fishmongers, by whom the school is maintained.
Within a year of his recovery he was elected to the
Court of the Company, much to his gratification, and
thenceforward a " Fishmonger day " in London was a
very regular and frequent occurrence. And now, as
before, invitations to lecture, give addresses, distribute
prizes, came to him from all parts of the countr)^,
and were freely accepted. His pleasure in all these
activities was doubled and trebled as he discovered
that he could undertake them as easily as ever.

Above all he was delighted to resume, with zest
undiminished, his many schemes for the adornment and
benefit of Magdalene; whether by a gift of portraits
for the gallery, hangings for the chapel, armorial
windows tor the hall and the like — or less conspicuously,
by help conveyed to undergraduates, in the form of
unofficial scholarships and bursaries, to the advantage
of themselves and the college. For such purposes
his hand was always open, and he was not only

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

lavish, he was ingenious and versatile in generosity.
He was proud of Magdalene's waxing renown
in the university and the public schools — proud,
too, of the harmony and concord of the college within;
to both he contributed with all his influence. And
here let the members of the society of Magdalene in
those years be named by name in order. The Master,
Stuart Donaldson, we already know; and next to him
came the President, Mr. A. G. Peskett, and to him the
Bursar, Mr. A. S. Ramsey. The Fellows next in
seniority were Mr. S. Vernon Jones, Benson himself,
Professor Nuttall, and Mr. T. Peel. Mr. Stephen
Gaselee, Pepysian Librarian, and Mr. F. R. Salter
completed the list; and where all were Arthur Benson's
friends, it may be said that the last two especially were
close in his company and intimacy in these and all the
later years. This was the " domus," the fellowship
and ruling body of the college. The dinner-parties in
hall were augmented by other associates, " members
of the high-table "; among whom Father P. N.
Waggett, resident at this time in Cambridge, should in
particular be mentioned as a frequent and welcome
presence in the grey volumes.

One other friend must be named, and his name set
here in a line by itself: Jesse Hunting, who with his
wife had entered Arthur Benson's service when he
settled at Cambridge in 1904 — who never left him,
never failed him in devoted and untiring attention,
and was with him at the end. There was no firmer
tie of friendship than this in Benson's life; he trusted
and honoured and relied on Hunting from the first
day to the last of their long association. No one who
remembers the Old Lodge can ever think of it without
joining gratefully in the admiration and affection that
its master felt for this man.

So much for Magdalene and the term. The
vacations were yet more regular in their sameness year
by year, for scarcely a variation was ever made from the
now established round. Hinton had been abandoned
when he fell ill. He now went from Cambridge to

190

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

Tremans; from Tremans to the " Lamb " or the
** King's Arms " or the " Feathers," where he has so
often been seen already; from thence to his cousins
at Skelwithfold by Windermere; and from thence
again to Cambridge. The order of these move-
ments might be changed, but nothing else. It was
the rarest of events if he slept a night under another
roof.

It only remains to be said that in 19 10 he published
The Silent Isle — sketches of the fen-country, which he
had written at Hinton^— and was engaged on the
biographical studies which appeared in the following
year as The Leaves oj the Tree, He also wrote
and delivered at Magdalene the lectures afterwards
published in the volume called Ruskin: a Study in
Personality.

" January 24, 19 10. — A letter from Gosse, deploring
his idleness; he is entirely silent as to my own illness.
Maurice Baring went off; it has been delightful to have
him here. I felt well and cheerful. Snow fell. Hore
came with me to Wimpole, and we walked in the frozen
avenues; a funeral at the church. He entertained me
with ingenuous talk about the college — a charming
boy.

" Then I wrote; and went to a musical committee at
King's. . . . Then went off with S.A.D. to dine with
Waggett. He has taken the pretty old house at
Newnham, once Harr)' Goodhart's, and has an assemblage
of young High Church men there. It is a quaint house;
he has a chapel, with a fine Sassoferrato, and an oratory
with nice Sienese pictures. His own room full of books,
deal tables, crucifixes. I am told he is rather inclined
to break down in nerves. There was a big gatherino^,
rather obscure young clerics, and laymen, with that odd,
bright, ecclesiastical smile which means so little. A
huge party at dinner. ... I liked the old ecclesiastical
feeling — it reminded me of Truro — the mild and godly
mirth, the general submissiveness of tone. I know
exactly what to do and say. . . .

191

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

" Then we adjourned to a little bare room, and pious

undergraduates came in. Father made a long

rambling speech about a mission somewhere. The two
things he said were important were: (i) to conciliate the
natives; (2) to hold one's own against other denomina-
tions. That was a Christian programme. Waggett
spoke very well, dwelling on the almost Greek beauty of
the Kaffirs, and their primitive joy in church things. A
long story, called a * very sad * one, was told of a young
chief excommunicated for polygamy. I felt a mixture
of admiration, bewilderment and hopeless disgust at the
frame of mind of these missionaries. But it was an
interesting evening. I should not like much of it,
but a little gives me back the old days, and the air of
religion."

" May 20. — The day quite lovely. The papers
are now absolutely unreadable, one idiotic gush of false
sentiment and fatuous panegyric* One hunts through
for a few words of sense or fact, and reads an obituary
notice of someone else with relief. . . . What a proof it
all is that we don't any of us really believe in personal
immortality. If we did, all this ghastly humbug, which
must be as distasteful to the poor man, if he is conscious,
as it is to me, v/ould be impossible. With what face
should we meet the dear ones about whom we had lied so
effusively and gushed so hypocritically.? It is all very
disgusting.

" The place is quiet; half the college has gone to the
funeral. The garden is delicious, especially the great
burst of speedwell, just where the path under the bastion
turns up to the arbour. That is the ' liquid heavens
upbreaking ' if you like — not hyacinths. The whole of
that bank, deep in grass, colour inextricably intertwined,
is beautiful beyond words — the mass, the variety, the
richness, the sweetness of it all. How one has the heart
to paint or write, I don't know. . . .

" I can forgive to-day its heat for being so golden-
sweet, so summer-scented. In the afternoon we motored
out to Harlton, through fragrant air, the fields golden

* Death of King Edward VII.
192

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

with buttercups. Everything has come out with a wild
rush of leaf and bloom. Here we left the car and
struck up from Eversden by the old clunch-pit into
the Mareway. The landscape dcliciously hazy; the
Mareway itself held the rain of yesterday in its oozy
ruts, and we mainly walked in breezy fields to left
and right, with lovely silent views of wide champaign
country, and by the corners of secluded woods. Then
down through Wimpole and along the great avenue.
P. entertained me much by sketches of Anglo- Venetian
life. ...

" The great house blinked down the vast avenue, and
we walked among cowslips and meadow-grass. It is a
holiday to-day, and the roads are full of tall-hatted
rustics and girls in mourning, enjoying themselves with
infinite solemnity.

" "VVe got back late; and I had a note from Cooke to
say he would bring a dentist at 6.0. A young, shy,
pleasant man appeared, and produced probes and a horrid
forceps. . . . Five useless attempts, and each attempt was
more painful — but wholesome pain, not sickening, nasty
pain like dressing a wound. At last the vile claw got
hold. ... I really think that Cooke suffered more than I
did. I smoked cigarettes and wrote contentedly at my
Ruskin, dining alone, while P. went out. It is an odd
combination of nerve and no nerve. I am naturally very
timid and sensitive, but I don't really think I feel much
pain; and I didn't really mind being escorted to my
bedroom by the torturers. But it is very hard to see
the point of all this petty and undignified pain; I am a
ludicrous object, I don't learn any patience or courage, my
pleasant work is interrupted. On the other hand I am
sustained by a quite unreasonable cheerfulness and enjoy-
ment of life. I don't see the bearing of it all on what is or
may be. ..."

'* May 28. — I had arranged to go out with M.RJ.,
but P.L. and Oliffe Richmond ousted me, and they
arranged to start early and return late. I was rather
vexed; they don't see how rude it is, nor does Monty.

193

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

When I remonstrated, they only said gleefully, ' You
wouldn't fall in with any of the arrangements.' I wrote
and taught. Then walked with Mallory across the fen
from Upware to Swaffham; very beautiful, but grey and
clouded. I tried to explain to Mallory that all poets are
really saying the same thing; the style, the metre, the
subject, don't matter — it is the wonder of things beautiful
they express. He would not see it and disputed it
flatly.

" I wrote an account of Roosevelt for the College
Magazine. Then we got Rupert Brooke to come to
dine. He was very handsome and very charming, and
talked away freely. The beloved Salter also came, and
made us all cheerful."

** May 29. — I hate Sunday; there is a constraint about
it, and it is too desperately sociable for my taste. I
played the organ in chapel with some pleasure. Rendall
of Winchester* preached, a long, vague sermon, full of
points, badly and stiffly delivered. He said that
Pharisaism did not exist among undergraduates! It
is rampant. At no age do men judge so harshly or
disapprove so unreasonably or are so complacent about
themselves. He said too that it was a shame that the
fine old word ' sport ' should be so much vitiated by
money transactions — ' How unlike the Sermon on the
Mount ' — as if Christ approved of horse-racing and
disapproved of betting! Both alike are entirely contrary
to Christ's spirit. ..."

" Norwich, June 5. — I resisted Ainger's suggestion to
have a walk before Cathedral. We went to service, and
were given stalls. The cathedral choir dark and dank and
airless, and curiously lacking in any sense of ecclesiastical
tradition. . . . The Dean looked jolly enough, but
he had a wandering and restless eye, in search of
distraction. A feeble hon. canon by him, who had a
tendency, in procession, to wander off up gangways, and
was much poked and pulled by the Dean ... It was
pretty before service began to see two little blue-

* Dr. M. J. Rendall, Headmaster of Winchester.
194

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

cassocked choir-boys in the Dean's stall, finding his places.
The usual collection of dreary and pompous old fogies,
retired parsons, tradesmen, lawyers, in the stalls, snuff-
ling and screeching. The sermon most dreary; had

a voice like Nixon, and preached on religious persecution,
which he seemed to wish could be restored as a guiding
force (text: ' Compel them to come in.') He said with
joy that St. Augustine recommended the use of the civil
power to punish faithless or heretic Christians. His
argument was that the heathen were wrong to persecute
Christians, because the Christians were right and the
heathen were wrong; but the Christians, being right,
would do well to persecute the heathen, though he
deprecated excessive torture. It was a dreadful
performance, emanating from a mind in prison. . . .

" Then the indefatigable Ainger walked in the town.
Then we went to the Palace; the approach to the gate
grass-grown and ill-kept; no porter to answer the crazy
bell. (Such a fine gatehouse, with a figure in a niche.)
The garden very sweet, with its great trees and sunny
lawns, and the cathedral rising over. But it is a deplor-
able building, by Christian the architect — rubble flint
with brick facings, like a great ugly hospital. The
Bishop* strolled down to meet us, in a panama hat, looking
very youthful, and glad to see us in a quiet, welcoming
self-possessed way. The house in frantic disorder, the
boards up for electric light; a great hole in the wall, in the
hall, showing a fine cr)'pt. No carpets or curtains, and the
furniture piled up in the rooms. We lunched in a dirty
little room — a good cold lunch, with a claret incredibly
strong. . . . The Bishop talked a good deal about all sorts of
things, sensibly and even humorously; but what I like
best is his self-possession and unaffected kindness. He
took us all over the house. The dining-room is awful,
very large, like a restaurant — hideous, chocolate-washed
walls, marble pillars, pitch-pine roof. No portraits to
speak of. The drawing-room on the third floor, with
some character. ... A grand vaulted kitchen, with a

• Dr. Bertram Pollock, Bishop of Norwich, formerly Master of Wellington
College,

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

beautiful, red-haired kitchen-maid. The Bishop went to
cathedral, attended by verger and chaplain and a pretty
choir-boy to whom he talked delightfully as he went.
Then we went for a dreary walk in the heat, along
suburban roads. . . .

" I find myself rather longing for pomps and vanities,
and more important work. But, after all, I am in
Cambridge, with a lay canonry, teaching-work to do,
a college to help and serve, time for writing, and
with wealth in abundance. How mean to want more
state and fuss! — and I know too how I should hate
it. I have got exactly what I want, yet I am
discontented.

" I came back tired, after a hard day of talk and
entertainment. ... A very bad and wakeful night
of the worst kind."

"Magdalene^ June 28. — Much bothered by callers.
. . . Found Inge,* and walked with him down the river
to Waterbeach. He was rather lively; much interested
in the Divorce Commission. ... It does really seem to
me ridiculous to base legislation on a chance saying of
Christ in the Gospel — not a dictum, but an answer to a
question — and on another saying of St. Paul, which
admits religious differences as a reason for divorce!
What a hopeless nation we are for precedents! . . .

** Tea, and wrote. I am rather melancholy to-day,
not disabled by it, but overshadowed. I seem to be
very idle and self-centred, and to have no particular work.
I see my contemporaries, one by one, taking up respon-
sible work; and I have refused very responsible work,
from a genuine diffidence, not unmingled, I suppose,
with laziness and want of moral stamina. Now I seem
firmly on the shelf. I have plenty to do, but it is all
scrappy and feeble. . . . My easy and genteel philosophy
does not help me much now. I might be offered this
new Professorship. t If S.A.D. were promoted I might be

* Dr. W. R. Inge, Dean of St. Paul's, at this time Lady Margaret Professor of
Divinity at Cambridge.

f The recently-founded King Edward VII Professorship of'English Literature
at Cambridge.

196

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

Master here. Either of these, I think, 1 could do. But
I am sadly conscious of vagueness, cowardice, idleness,
meanness, baseness, self-indulgence and other ugly-
things. I want the honour without the work. I have a
very vulgar and shallow soul, but I don't see how to
mend that. . . . Yet I have a fliith both that it doth not
yet appear what we shall be — and that the end is not yet.
" This evening I have been reading the life of William
Morris, with envious admiration of a man who knew
what he meant to do, and what he had to do, and did
it. . . . "

" Tremans, September 20. — In the afternoon came
Mrs. Cornish,* in her most expansive mood; every word
as good as a play, with tremendous emphasis, and with an
intense desire to do justice to interlocutors. But, alas,
the shadow of age falls — she cannot attend. . . . Still she
gives me a sense of intense appreciation of life, and of
well-bred enthusiasm, which is very refreshing. ..."

" September 1 1 . — I had a long, vague stroll with Mrs.
Cornish by the dove-cote and farm, in golden sun — she
hobbling in little tight, high-heeled shoes. . . . She talked
to me much about marriage — about Leslie Stephen, how
he once took her hand and kissed it, when she put coals
on his fire. * All the things that women like and value
he did by instinct,' she said. I was puzzled — I suppose
a kind of ritual of worship? She said that it was possible
for women to go on bearing a man charming children,
and yet never to have a word of tenderness from him.
She said that I made the mistake, like many clever men,
of thinking marriage too transcendental a thing. ' It's
not transcendental at all! ' — and she told me the story of

a Miss , who, when marriage was mentioned, cried

out in a mixed party, ' I would marry any man who
asked me.' But I fear it would be transcendental with
me: [I mean] that I should so get to detest the ways and
the physical presence of anyone with whom I lived —
unless it were a simply negative clean comeliness — that I

• Mrs. F. W. Warre-Comish, wife of the Vice-Provost of Eton.
197

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

should be obsessed by it, unless saved by a very high
sort of passion.

" But it was very nice to have this talk. She is a
clever, feeling, experienced woman; she arrays her
thoughts a little — but it is all original and fine. I talked
a little Socialism to her; she didn't understand. ..."

** Skelwithfold, September 29. — P.L. wrote me an
interesting letter about Robert Bridges, with whom he
stayed. In compliment of this I read the Shorter Poems.
They seem to me thinner than of old, with little more
than an Elizabethan trick of language — but a pleasant
trick! No criticism on life. How priggish that
sounds — but it is what I want just now. Life seems to
me not good enough just to go on with and dabble in from
day to day, only interesting as leading on to something.
I don't mean that life is boring; but it is so much less
nice than it ought to be, and it is so easy to get tangled,
that there must be some reason for it all — and that is
what I want to get at. A person who is content with
life is to me uninteresting, because it only means that he
has not experienced life.

"I got off at I i.o, and to my joy found Spencer Lyttel ton
at the L.N.W.R.; we fared to Bletchley together.
He imparted to me a great store of interesting and un-
important knowledge. . . . The time passed pleasantly,
and perhaps the reason why I can't remember much of
what S.L. said is because I talked so much myself.
We arranged for a winter trip together, and parted
with more than goodwill. He is now such a hand-
some, upright fellow — how can he dangle about as he
does?

" Then followed a long, dull journey; changed at
Preston and walked a mile on the vast platform; very
dizzy. I read and reflected a good deal, but the train
ran ill and rolled. So to Windermere by 7.12. A little
carriage waiting — car broken down — and I drove
through the soft warm night beside the lake, with the
gleam of pale waters, dark headlands, moonrifts in inky
cloud-banks, hills that moved slowly as we moved, tangled

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

constellations hanging in forest spaces, bright stars
racing through tree-tops; the scent of the warm
woodlands very sweet. ..."

** MagJa/ene, December "]. — . . . I dined in Hall; it
was noisy and dull. Roy Lubbock was there, Percy's
brother, trying for a scholarship at King's; very like the
rest of them, tall, pale, languid-looking, but a very quiet
simple, nice friendly boy. I talked mostly to Salter.
Then came a smoking-concert, not bad fun. I liked the
look of hall, and all the neat jolly boys, with their funny
ways; one was to walk round and to get everyone to
sign programmes. There was a topical song, very heavy
mirth. They made jokes about me of a harmless kind,
but I couldn't raise a laugh. Undergraduates have a
deep desire to amuse. I suppose it is that they want to
impress. You can't see when people are seriously im-
pressed, but you can see them laugh. But while they
have a gift for being ingenious, their jokes are very
heav)'-handed, and generally entail discomfort for the
victim. But there was an intense desire to do nothing
unfriendly or wounding, and the whole thing was
very amicable. . . . The great Winterbotham came
up and sate by me a little and talked pleasantly; I am
much drawn to this wholesome, handsome, natural
creature. . . .

" What amuses me now is to find myself going to bed
like a child, angry at being interrupted, full of gusto,
longing for the morning and for the current of life to be
renewed. I don't say that life is very joyful^ but it is
awfully interesting. . . .

" The one supreme happiness of my life just now is
my friendship with several young men on really equal
terms — Percy, Salter, Gaselee, Hugh Walpole, and
some of the undergraduates. I can't say how wonderful
this is to me. While I was at Eton I gradually drifted
out of that — indeed rather made friends with my elders
— and now I seem to have slipped into touch with these
young men. I dare say it isn't as close as I think, but
it is a great happiness to me."

199

I9IO] THE DIARY OF

" Tremans^ December 24. — Many tiresome letters and
endless presents of cards and nonsense from admirers
and readers. Do I like all this rubbish? It gives me a
sense, I suppose, of reaching out into humanity; but it
also makes me feel that I am only a sentimentalist at best.
These are the wrong people 1 If it were the young men
who liked [my books] it would be different; but it is
the maiden aunts, and the silly middle-aged men,
and the foolish maidens. It is a sort of fame; but as
Carlyle says, no one was ever anything but injured by
popularity.

" I was hunted out of the drawing-room by callers
and decorators; then hunted out of my own room as
well. Christmas is a children's feast, and it seems
rather silly for a grown-up household to be behaving so.
The good Hunting went off to Cambridge. There is a
real friend; he looks after me and cares for me and thinks
for me as if I were his son. He never obtrudes himself,
never gossips, never slanders. He is, I think, one of the
very best men I have ever met. . . ,

" I had a depressed waking to-day after very vivid and
sad dreams. I spent a day with Winterbotham in
London, knowing I bored him. I took him to half a
dozen clubs, but could get no food or attention, and he
was always making excuses to leave me. I am not well
to-day, excitable and depressed by turns; I must try to
rest a little — but inaction bores me. I wrote twenty-six
letters this morning. . . .

" I walked alone; met Maycock — he was going to see
a poor young man who is dying bravely of cancer. The
sorrows of the world! And all I do to help is to write
timid and chatty articles for maiden aunts. The day was
warm and wet, with volleying winds and angry inky
skies; very beautiful, with the wintry pastures and bare
woods. There came a gleam of yellow light among the
flying cloud-rack. I wish I knew what all this lavish
beauty meant; it has such a hold on me, but I can't
interpret it.

" Since tea rather depressed again. The life here does
not really suit me. But how can I keep quiet.? The

200

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1910

brain spins like a top; one writes, talks, writes again; and
even as I walk alone I dream a hundred dreams and spin
fancies. . . . Read Carlyle half the evening and felt
ashamed of my mild dilettante outlook on men and
things."

20T

I9II

There is little to be said of the next year, save that it
was still busier, still happier and more prosperous than
the last. Even to himself it was clear by this time that
he had no real inclination towards a life of literary
retirement, and he seized all opportunities of extending
the range of his work. He easily found enough and to
spare. And yet he was sometimes troubled to think
that with a dozen avocations he laboured to no great
purpose after all, wanting a single task that satisfied
him; for the solid and valuable work that he was
accomplishing at Magdalene was all an interest and a
pleasure, and he could never regard it as a professional
duty. Outside the college, in Cambridge and else-
where, he had desultory employment in plenty; but he
began to wish for the chance to take a hand in the affairs
and councils of the University itself, to which he had
hardly penetrated as yet. It pleased him accordingly
when in this year he was appointed a member of the
syndicate controlling the University Press. He was
thus brought into closer touch than hitherto with the
academic polity, much to his satisfaction; but though
he soon found himself engaged and interested, he was
a newcomer to the business of university government,
and his work in this direction never proceeded very
far. An unprofessional figure in Cambridge life he
remained to the end; and no doubt he was not the
less useful for that, but it meant that Cambridge,
outside Magdalene, did not provide him with the one

202

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

absorbing task he needed. That, after leaving Eton,
he never had again, at any rate until he became Master
of his college.

The only book he wrote, or finished, in this year was
the fantasy called The Child of the Dawn. He gave
a course of lectures on English fiction at the Royal
Society of Literature, and another on Carlyle at
Magdalene, but these were not published.

^^ Walton Park Hotel,, Clevedon,, January 11, 191 1. —
We set off at 11. 15 in a great scurry. . . . The country
very beautiful, pale-green meadows, leafless brown trees,
blue hills. A great motor met me at the station [Wells],
and we rolled up in state through the quaint street, over the
moat, up to the Palace. . , . Really it is a most romantic
house, with its lawns and trees, its walls and moats.
We went to see the Wells, where the clear green water
comes volleying up through the sand. The Mendips
behind all embower the view wonderfully. Then
through the Cathedral and Vicars' Close, George
conducting us.

'* Then to the Deanery. . . . It's a wonderful house —
a fine saloon with carved columns — many great rooms.
The back is simply delicious, with oriels and parapets, a
perfect great fifteenth-century house. The new Dean is
going to make a chapel out of what was once, I think, the
hall or gallery, destroying some later inserted bedrooms.
The garden is big, but without charm. For many years
of my life I should have thought that to be Dean of
Wells would be like heaven; but now I found myself
without the least touch of envy. It is a sham affair,
pomposity without dignity, state without power. A great
writer might be something here, but there is no audience
for sermons, and the life must be petty and deplorable.
It means nothing. It is the sort of place for an old
wearied and courteous bishop, who had done his work,
to repose in. But these enchanting houses are not fit
homes for mortals. One wants untroubled youth and
vigour and love and art to make them radiant. They
are too good for old, timid and conventional Christians.

203

191 1] THE DIARY OF

I should like to have given such a house to William
Morris in his youth. ..."

''Magdalene^ January i6. — Dressed (at four o'clock!)
and went up to town. To the Athenaeum. . . .
I dined alone in state, and wrote a little at my lecture;
seized with abject nervousness; but drove to City
Temple, by Plum Tree Court. A big crowd, and I was
refused admittance till I said I was the lecturer. A
very obliging young secretary took me up to a horrid little
room with a hot fire and plush chairs. Here I found
R. J. Campbell — a nice, simple, bourgeois man, rather
handsome, but rather marred; white hair and big eyes.
. . . Then I stepped with him to the scaffold. The room
was -packed^ all the gangways full of people standing—
perhaps 800 — they had turned many away. Such rows
of friendly and kindly faces. I plunged into my lecture
and read distinctly; then took a rest of five minutes in the
middle, while they gave out the notices. I asked Camp-
bell who they all were; he hardly knew — clerks, trades-
men, doctors, teachers, their wives and daughters — none
of them residing there, all coming in by train.

" The whole lecture took an hour and a half. A few
little speeches; and then I made a tiny speech about
dons in reply. It all gave me an impression of great and
sincere friendliness and goodwill. The lecture was dull,
but the socialist part was loudly applauded in one corner.
Then a little supper — my voice had lasted well — and out
by Campbell's private stair. But there was a crowd in
the street waiting to see me go, with hats off, wanting to
shake hands; some young ladies came on the steps of
the car and shook hands; quite a new experience for me!

" Much bored in the train, but was home by midnight;
skpt ill."

" January 17. — I have been thinking over my
City Temple experience. It is odd to have really met,
face to face, the people who read my books and love them
— who think them original and high-minded and sincere
and beautiful — who like the donnish and the aristocratic

204

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1911

flavour, the flavour picked up in episcopal palaces and
county societ)' and Eton and Cambridge — and believe
they have really found the charm of culture. It is
humiliating in a sense, because I don't think it is a
critical or an intellectual audience; but it is there, and its
real and urgent goodwill is there. That remains with
nie — the sense of having fallen among friends.

" January 23. — A very warm letter from Herbert
Stephen about my article on J.K.S.* He says that he
thinks we difl^er about as extensively as two ' creditable '
men can — this fact he says is emphasised by his having
read The Silent Isle — but he adds that he is well content
to let my article stand as the locus classicus for Jim, and
he congratulates me on its extraordinary vividness and
accuracy. This is a great relief and a great pleasure.
I had feared dimly that I might have pained some of the
Stephens.

" But it also makes me feel that this sort of reminis-
cence is what I can do best. I have a close observation
and a photographic eye — but it is very little pleasure
indeed to do it. It seems to me the sort of thing that
anyone can do or ought to be able to do; I want to criticise
life, not to photograph it.

" Went off with three undergraduates to shoot. We
had a nice quiet day, in mist and mire, among leafless
trees and wide, bare fields. We shot a few partridges;
I shot very few cartridges, and not well at that; but I
enjoyed the long lingering by hedgerow-ends, and the
sense of the continuity of field-life, so much older and
sweeter than Cambridge intrigues. ..."

*' Lamb Hotels Burjord^ March 29. — Worked feebly
at letters and diar)-. It was dull and cold, with a grey
light. We went off after lunch to Fairford, packed
tight in the car, very sleepy, through dull country; one
pretty village we passed, called either Filkins or Broughton
Poggs, we could not determine which. To Lechlade:
I remembered well my day with Tatham there, when we

• J. K. Stephen, in The Leaves of the Tree.
205

191 1] THE DIARY OF

went to Kelmscott, a day of enduring joy to me; I
remembered so well a little stone pavilion, at the edge
of a wood. We were soon at Fairford, but it was all
dull; I never, I think, saw a place of which the beauty
so much depends on the sun — the soft orange stone was
all blurred. We went in and looked round the windows;
they are certainly very beautiful, with their rich aged
colours, and the patient ugly faces of the saints are worth
a thousand of Kempe's wide-eyed courtly persons; but
I don't think they would have been worth much when
new. I liked best a Fall, with rich green trees, and a
lovely little bit of wide homely landscape, delicately
drawn in a blue light. Much bored by a courteous
verger, who explained the windows so that I could not
listen to him or look at them — like many lecturers.
Then we walked cheerfully to Quenington, discussing
the horrors of country-house life, Winterbotham defend-
ing them; and Salter gave us a view of his political
principles. . . . Quenington a sweet place of old
houses and gliding waters, with pretty pavilions by the
stream: a church with rude Norman doors. We were
soon at Coin St. Aldwyn; we went to the church; W. and
I walked round, peeped into the manor garden, where
Lord St. A. lives, and saw the pretty grass terraces and
the steep little park: then packed into the car and went
quickly home.

" I do like my fresh and simple-minded companions,
who speak their minds so freely and ingenuously and
do not treat me with any dull respect, though with
plenty of consideration. Wrote, and dined, with
cards and pretty talk till midnight. I am indeed happy
here. . . .

*' W. said to me that I didn't talk enough about my
books, and he couldn't make out if I was really interested
in them. I ought to be, he added graciously."

" Magdalene^ May 4. — A slightly better account
of Beth, but the end is not far off. Hugh is there. . . .
I taught all the morning; then lunched with Smith —
rather dull — and motored with Salter and Winterbotham

206

(j. Win 1 iRuoi liA.M
1-. k. vSai/ikr a. (J. Hf.nson

Bl'RIORD

I9II

[To face p. 206

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

to the oxlip wood — a different thing from Burford!
W. was tired, I think, I was oppressed with care, and S.
was a little pragmatical; he lectured me severely about
not dining in hall! . . ,

" I wrote a little, dined alone, and read a paper to a
mixed society of blacks and whites (East and West) at
Fitzwilliam Hall. It is a well-meant plan to have a
mixed social club; but friendliness which springs from
a sense of duty and not from personal liking is rather a
priggish thing, and it is hard to eliminate a sense of
patronage from it. The bright-eyed Indians, with their
dusky faces and unintelligible English, were very
friendly, and the paper (Charles Kingsley) was well
received."

" May 5. — A better account of Beth, but a wire came
to say that all was over.* I hardly know what I feel —
a sort of dull ache of sorrow, at the thought of losing
the one person of whose love I first was consciously
aware, and the one person whom I have myself loved
in a sort of instinctive way all my days. I think of all
her endless little gifts and kindnesses, and the entirely
uncritical sweetness of her love. It has been an extra-
ordinarily beautiful, happy and useful life; just spent
in service which she enjoyed, and among those whom she
loved. I could not wish to keep her in the dim life
she was living, and yet I can't bear to think she is
gone. ...

" I have had a dull and dreary feeling all day, and
there seems no joy an^-^^'here; though the world was as
sweet as ever — the sun on the leads of Ely as white
as snow, and all the fruit-trees loaded with white
blossom."

''May 9. — I taught, and scribbled hard at arrears;
some men to lunch. Lapsley came, and we biked, very
gingerly, round by Horningsea; he was nice and gentle.
Then I went out again, a rather lesser round, as L. had to

• Elizabeth Cooper ("Beth") died at the age of 93, after 78 years of devoted
service with Mrs. Benson and her family.

207

191 1] THE DIARY OF

go home to tea; and was altogether more cheerful.
What is one meant to do, I wonder, by the Mind that
made us? To grieve or not to grieve, to enjoy or not
to enjoy? One does and will do, no doubt, whatever
one is meant to do; but which way ought one to try to
go — crush grief out, let it fade, keep it fresh, meditate
over it? These things are dark.

** I dined in hall. Mr. Pfungst, the wine-merchant
and art-collector, was there — very courteous, rather
interesting, extremely deaf. . . . He talked politics —
anti-radical; and R. answered him with a shocking
calmness, as a widower might answer jests about his
dead wife, every now and then asking some high loud
sectarian question which Mr. Pf. didn't hear. I
resigned myself to listening. R. made an attack on
monasticism — about their useless and trivial selfishness.
Now when Hugh talks about monks I want to turn all
monks adrift, with a horsewhip laid on their backs, and
to burn down the monkeries. But when R. so talks
I see he doesn't understand the thing at all, and despises
it; and then I think monasticism the one thing worth
preserving, as a bulwark against contemptuous virtue
and complacent common-sense."

" June 2. — Out to dine with the Marcus Dimsdales,
which turned out a delightful party. They have added
and added to their house, till it looks like a village street.
But the garden on the hill-top, with its wide view, is
delicious, and they have built a nice open-air sort of
school-room for the children. . . . Jane Harrison
was there; she is a pleasant woman and can sustain a
conversation. There was also a Miss Balfour, whom I
met at Aunt Nora's, such a pretty and charming girl.
I felt that if I were young and wise I would like to have
tried to make friends; but I was heavy and elderly, and
when I spoke of ' Aunt Nora * she looked at me with
amazement. Walter Raleigh* was there, most interest-
ing and delightful. He is full of zest and humour,
and is a real talker, darting and gliding on, picking up

* Sir Walter Raleigh, Professor of English Literature at Oxford, died in 1922.
208

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

other peoples contributions, giving them a deft twirl,
and weaving a sort of pretty flower chain. . . . I came
away after an evening of real and rational enjoyment,
feeling that one had said what one thought, and heard
other people's thoughts, not mere chatter smeared into
gaps of boredom."

" TremanSy June 7. — I wrote at my letters, but they
accumulate fast. Went off about 12.0, and motored
through heat and fine country to Lancing. The little
woods, the thickly-grassed fields and the downs rising
over all made a delicious picture. Bowlby* received us,
and Mrs. Bowlby, and gave us lunch. His is a fine house
with much modern culture, suggesting Browning and
Florentine pictures; Luxmoore's old William Morris
carpet was the finest thing in the house, I thought.
Then we went all round. The great church is roofed
and floored, but it wants an immense sum for wood-
work and colour; it is hard and cold — it ought
to be rich and dim ; the green windows, seen from
a distance, are displeasing. We looked into science-
rooms, class-rooms, halls, all ever so much more finished
and furnished than when I visited it before. An air
of prosperity everywhere; the boys smart and well-
mannered. . . . The view was splendid; the downs,
the river, the red roofs and old towers of Shoreham,
the estuary and the line of blue sea, with the vague
smoke and streets of Brighton laid out beyond, made
a delightful picture. . . .

" 1 could not help envying Bowlby a little; such
a fine life, to rule a healthy community, and try to secure
a good active healthy boyhood for these jolly creatures —
and to try to put something bigger into their minds. I
could not rule such a place; 1 haven't enough serenity
or good humour or patience; yet I think I have many gifts
for it. I am more at home with undergraduates and
time for writing, and I wouldn't change my life; the
thing is not as bright as it looked to-day; there are

• Canon H. T. Bowlby, formerly assistant master at Eton, Headmaster of
Lancing College, 1909-25.

o 209

191 1] THE DIARY OF

anxieties, squabbles, wearinesses, no doubt — and fears
too. But it is a fine and a beautiful work. . . .

" We met a lot of Territorials coming back, riding
and clattering in the dust, very healthy and jolly. I
got back tired, and had a very bad wakeful night of the
worst kind. These days without exercise don't suit me
at all."

*' Skelwtthjold^ June 22* . — Hopeless rain and volleying
wind; but in this astonishing climate it cleared somehow,
and when Annie and I walked down to Brathay the grass
was dry again. I went on up the valley with Dingo, and
round by the Coniston Road. A great dog rushed out
of a farm-house at Dingo. I threw a stone at him, and
Dingo ambled beside me with an obvious smile, appearing
to say, ' We are well out of that ! The stone was a
good idea.'

" Then I came in to a solitary tea and proofs. I do
find the climate here very unpleasant; I am sleepy, lazy,
greedy; I can hardly put one foot before another. But I
like the quiet of this house and the easy ways and the
affection which surrounds me. A. came back very tired
from the sports about 7.30: advised me not to dress.
Cordelia arrived about 8.15 in rather a peremptory mood,
determined to have the bonfire and be damned. So
after dinner at 10 o'clock, in heavy rain, I walked with
her in cloak and strong shoes, carrying boxes, to a little
eminence among the woods below the house. The
bonfire was an immense pile, 250 loads of faggots; we
sent off a rocket or two, and then lighted the thing.
Meanwhile, through the misty air, we could see a faint
bonfire like a star on High Close; and the top of
Loughrigg looked like a volcano.

" The bonfire was grand — so liquid^ both in sound
and sight. There came a time when fire flowed into
the air like an upward-darting cataract. It lit up the
trees and the faces of the crowd in a very theatrical
manner; and the heat was tremendous, so that standing
afar off my cloak smoked. There was one great fall

* King George V's coronation day.
210

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

of material, and a pillar of smoke and fire raged out;
but it hypnotised ever\'one — the crowd stood gazing,
silent. Then we sent off a few more squibs and things,
and when the fire was nothing but a red and grey
mountain of embers went back about midnight. The
crowd cheered A. with a will."

" 7«A' 3- — Rose earlier; and we all went off together
in the car to catch the 10.15 at Windermere. . . .

" Ru/e 43: Never travel with women. We had an
engaged compartment, which was comfortable; but OH
the fuss about luggage and wraps. A. and C. had on
a moderate computation eighteen packages. Then
there was a t)Te, a box containing china, a kettle in a
sack, a box with some cheese in it. These were all
piled up in our compartment — some of them handed out
at Kendal. It was a pleasant journey though; the train
was a huge one, and it seemed to be just abandoned at
stations by all concerned — stood idly waiting until it
occurred to some official to try if he could start it.

*' I read Endymion — and indeed the whole of Keats
except Otho. I do wish with all my heart that in a
popular edition they would not print his wretched
impromptu rubbish, much of it so caddish and vulgar;
it is interesting only to the artist, as an unfinished sketch
or study, while it makes the ordinary person think it all
equally good. It is curious to trace in Keats the germ
of so much in William Morris and Tennyson too. The
bream keeping head against the freshet is exactly W.M.,
and much oi Hyperion is Tennyson. On the other hand
much of Keats is pure Milton.

" I changed at Bletchley and said good-bye to the
beloved women. A hot train received me. The only
relief — I was very tired and sleepy — was the look of
the green, warm river-water at Bedford, reed-fringed,
weed-grown, in the quiet hay-fields. . . .

" I had a dream last night so horribly vivid that I am
sure my brain was unduly fevered. ... It began with
my being with Jones in a field, and seeing an odd thing
rise out of the earth. On looking close, it was two

21 1

191 1] THE DIARY OF

snakes, curiously intertwined. They were poisonous
snakes, and I tried to kill one with a stick; but soon after
found they had disappeared in a hole. I got a spade
and dug, and presently much earth fell in and showed
a rocky cleft with a pool in which snakes were swimming
about. I went to a shop — by this time the field was
become a little bare hill, standing out among houses,
very interesting and quaint, in odd little streets and
squares — and bought some petrol, with the idea of get-
ting a light to spear the snakes; but I spilt the tin in the
cave, and it was somehow kindled and drove us out by
burning fiercely. Then King Edward VII appeared,
very genial, to ask why smoke was coming out of the
hill; I explained, and he said it would be all right if it
didn't spread. But on walking round the little town I
saw that streams of fire were running out of the hill,
dripping down, and half-a-dozen houses were alight.
I roused the inmates; and then followed a time of agony
while the fires were got under and I patrolled the base
of the hill waiting for more streams to break out. I
woke in great discomfort of mind and body: read a long
time and didn't get to sleep till 4.0."

''Magdalene, July 8. — The heat insupportable. I
sate all the morning; the portrait improves.* . . .
Biked alone round Horningsea: had some talk to my
little gatekeeper at Clayhithe. Then along by the river;
.n this heat all decency goes to the winds — there were
people bathing frankly all along — but it was very nice
and summery, and gave a sense of holiday and golden
age. What a pretty thing the human body is! I saw
a fine radiant boy come out of the water, looking like a
little god: in five minutes he was clothed and shouting,
a horrible cad! Then I wrote an article on Oratory.
It has been a happy day. In the evening sate out for
an hour in the dusk, with Salter and Maitland. The
electric works throbbed, and a large orange moon went
slowly down over the Pepys building. Vague scents
wandered, obscure sounds thrilled in the twilight.

* This portrait, by Mr. A. Fuller Maitland, is now at Magdalene.
212

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

Then some talk with M.; and to bed, but could not
sleep; read most of J. A. Symonds's life — a horrible
tortured affair, which vexes me more the oftener I read
it. . . .

" I worked out my last year's income yesterday, which
was better than I had hoped. It came to ;{^3,66o. Of
this I seem to have spent ;(^2,ioo — how, I can't imagine —
invested about ;/^700, and given about ;£8oo to decorating
the college in various ways. What I don't like is the
fact that I spend so much on myself; and yet I live simply
enough. I have also carefully analysed my private
income, apart from teaching and writing; it comes to
about ;^i,7oo. . . . One ought not to need more, but
I want to have a lot to give away."

''July 14. — At 8.0 to the dinner — about

twenty guests, most of them, it turned out, about my
age. . . . Afterwards talked to various men, civil,
sentimental, pleased. It gave me rather a horrible
sensation. Many of them were obviously drunk, and
the awful stupidity of the talk! I really felt myself to be
cleverer than some of the guests. Several people asked
to be introduced to me, said they wished to make my
acquaintance, and then talked continuously. One man
asked me for a photograph, for his wife — said he didn't
himself care about such things. But it seemed to me a
vile thing to see the kind of mess people make of their
lives — the inevitable mess — and then becoming pursy
and short-winded and red-nosed and stupid beyond
words. None of them (except an interesting man, a
doctor) could talk; they could only go on with endless
repetitions. And then they could do little but tell tales
of their desperate deeds, when one knozvs them to have
been harmless creatures, and the only people they
admired were ' blues.' It all seemed to me such an
ugly business, and man to be an animal very little removed
from the pig, unpleasant to see and hear and smell —
and with no idea of what he was doing or where he was
going — no emotion about it all. Surely an education
must be very bad to break down so horribly in

213

191 1] THE DIARY OF

middle-age as this — so many failures, and complacent
failures. . . . "

" July 19. — I asked S. to lunch, a handsome Indian
— a fine creature, I think; but what ugly voices and
hideous pronunciations they have. . . . The Master
invited himself to lunch and the combination was not
happy. The Master talked private shop, with an
occasional word to ' Mr. S.' S. said nothing, but ate
and drank with gleaming eyes.

" Then I motored with Laurence; we went to Grant-
chester and walked across to Haslingfield, exploring a
pretty quarry on the north-east end of Chapel Hill —
full of flowers, a pretty campanula. . . . Laurence
talked very interestingly though dryly about men and
books.

" I feel now that the mistake I made in coming up to
Cambridge was to feel that people here lived in an
intellectual atmosphere. They do not — they live in
affairs and gossip. They hate their work, I often think,
and have few other interests. I believe my own
intellectual temperature is higher than the average
here.

*' As we came back we saw the D.D.s and B.D.s in
black gowns and cassocks flocking out of the Senate
House after listening to the Lady Margaret Professor-
ship praelections. . . . They looked like rooks in a
rookery. I think I hated these meek, courteous, cautious,
respectable men, so unoriginal and unenterprising, so
comfortable and fortunate, so down on all unorthodoxy
or independence. I should have liked to give them a
little real religion to suffer for! . . .

" The Archdeacon of Ely* dined with me — such a
bluff, clear-headed, humorous big man. There's a man
one can both like and respect. . . . Salter and
Hepburn came in and we played jacobi. To bed late,
and slept very badly indeed. This heat is damnable. But
it has one good result, that I read a lot of books in
bed. ..."

* Dr. W. Cunningham, Archdeacon of Ely, died in 1919.
214

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

" July 21. — It was 89 in the shade to-day and I am
poured out like water. I spent the morning in trying
to plan a bicycle shed and taking Hugh Walpole round
my improvements — and in trying to clear off letters.
Then we motored to St. Ives: looked at the church, where
a girl like Cordelia played music. Then along the river-
bank to Houghton in great heat. It was pleasant to
stand by the dripping mill-wheel at Houghton, with its
mossy spokes and its flying spray, and the smell of the
cool river-water was divine. Then we sate by the lock
and watched boatfuls of females shoving off. I think
there is something very horrid about women — so
self-conscious and inconsequent! . . .

" I had a curious letter from , very radiant

within! I had said in my letter that I accounted myself
a failure. He consoles me, says that I have an influence,
but that he wishes I would not put it into the opposite
scale from practical work. That is what I am supposed
to do. What I meant by failure was that I had no
official position, and that one is not held to succeed
apart from that in England. . . .

" It was beautiful to-day, out in the wide meadows
by the clear stream; but everything is getting burnt up,
and one is sadly conscious of one's heavy and molten
body. There is something very relentless about this
slowly growing calm heat."

" 'July 26. — Cockerel!* came to lunch, and we
had a dignified duet about art and artistic things and
artistic people. I took him all round my various decora-
tions. He half-approves, but not very cordially. He
is rather a purist, of course, and doesn't like anything
which is not authoritarian. But I always like a talk to
Cockerel!; he is simple, direct, xzxY^tr fierce^ very sure of
his opinion, not sympathetic; he is like an old-fashioned
Evangelical, with the difl^erence that he worships beauty
in his way. , . . S. accompanied us, and I could not
help being astonished at the relentless way he rubbed
in his preferences, without the slightest intention of

• Mr. S. C, Cockerel!, Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum.

191 1] THE DIARY OF

giving them up. . . . It is a case with S. of * a new
commandment give I unto you ' (not ' that ye love one
another,' but) ' thou shalt have none other gods but
me.' It does seem to me that compromise is the best
thing in the world. ..."

" July 27. — DAMN the heat! Here we are, as
hot and scalding as ever, so that I begin to sweat
reading the paper in bed. I have to go to town to-day,
too. . . .

'* I did go, and it was really fearful. . . . The
Court-room was blazing, with the windows shut to keep
out noise and orange blinds down: it was like some
awful place of torture. . . . Then, boiling and grilling,
to Cambridge — I did write a scrap in the train — found
P.L. had arrived and was sitting in white shirt and
trousers. . . . We strolled a little. Oliffe Richmond
came to dinner and was pleasant enough; we sate in the
garden in the dusk. . . .

" Then followed one of the most beautiful and
exciting nights I have had for years.

" Percy and I decided to bicycle. We started about
ii.o: went slowly to Barton, and so to Haslingfield:
then between Haslingfield and Harston we lay long on
the grass, near ricks, listening to owls and the snorting
of some beast that drew nigh, to far-off dogs barking,
and cocks crowing. The stars were like the points of
pendants in the irregular roof of a cave — not an even
carpet or set in a concave. We went on about i.o, and
then made a long halt near the G.N.R. bridge on the
way to Newton; but no trains passed, so we went on
about 1.45 to Shelford; and this was very sweet, so
fragrant and shadowed by dark trees, while Algol and
Aldebaran and other great shining stars slowly wheeled
above us.

" We got to the G.E.R. bridge at Shelford — I was
anxious to see trains — and half-a-dozen great luggers
jangled through with a cloud of steam and coloured
lights. There was one that halted, and the guard
walked about with a lantern; a melancholy policeman

216

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

was here, in the shadow. The owls again hooted and
screamed and cocks roared hoarsely.

" Suddenly we became aware it was the dawn! The
sky was whitening, there was a green tinge to east, with
rusty stains of cloud, and the stars went out. We went
on about 2.30 to Grantchester, where the mill with
lighted windows was rumbling, and the water ran oily-
smooth into the inky pool among the trees. Then it
was day; and by the time we rode into Cambridge,
getting in at 3.30, it was the white morning light — while
all the places so mysteriously different at night had
become the places one knew. We found some bread-and-
butter, and smoked till 4.0, when we went out round the
garden, the day now brightening up: after which I went
to bed, but P. walked till 5.0. The mystery, the cool-
ness, the scent, the quiet of it all were wonderful, and
the thought that this strange transformation passes over
the world thus night by night seemed very amazing.
. . . We talked of many things, but were a good deal
silent; and I shall not easily forget the dewy silence and
sweetness of it all."

" 'July 28. — Another day of Damned heat. The
contrast of my hideous heavy sweating self to what it
was last night at the mill-pool is like comparing heaven
and hell. I am neither tired nor sleepy — only with the
sense of relentless persecution which the heat gives. . .

** I went out to dine with Aunt Nora.* The Newalls
were there — he is a dear. . . . Aunt N. very sweet.
But the heat! I was not at my best — very full of
stories and witticisms of a hard kind, and information:
this all evoked by a tendency for us all to be afflicted
with the stares. I felt how I should have hated myself
if I had met myself."

" July 29. — After a bad night got up at 7.15 very
hot and sick. Breakfast with" Salter and P.L. Then
at 8.0 R. M. Holland arrived, and Mac Michael. We
packed in together and sped to Holt. I rather enjoyed

• Mrs. Henry Sidgwick, sometime Principal of Newnham College. Professor
Henry Sidgwick (who died in 1899) was a brother of Mrs. Benson.

217

191 1] THE DIARY OF

it, I think; it was fairly cool. The country I liked best
was that between Brandon and Walton, where I think
I must some day spend a month — so full of sweet woods
and pleasant villages.

"We were at Holt soon after ii.o. I went to a
meeting. . . . We also had a boy in to reprove. . . .

** Then lunch: Westcott (Archdeacon) very deaf and
venerable. The clergy were awful. The rebuked boy
had as one of his misdemeanours played kiss-in-the-ring
at a Church Fete. A vicar said anxiously to me, ' What
is your view of the ethics of kiss-in-the-ring.'^ ' Then
the speeches, in the open-air woodland theatre — very
hot, and the air makes voices, and faces, ineffective.
Westcott was good — nice and paternal in manner,
amusing, not in the least priggish or profound. . . .
The boys all looked smart and good, and the whole day
was rather jolly.

*' Then a rush round Miller's house with Chinnery,
talk to two or three boys, tea and flight. I got off the
main stream of gabble altogether. We came back
at a great pace, up to fifty miles an hour in places.
Salter and Percy to dine, and rather too much
champagne. . . .

I begin to feel strongly my own puerility, and my
incapacity for all strong and deep emotion. I wish that
by some means or other I might have a deep and worthy
emotion, something which would carry me out of my-
self— not a shock, but a new wave and current of life
and energy. All this zest in details and vignettes is
very distracting and amusing — but there is no even flow
of life."

** August 15. — Slept well, and it is really cooler, thank
God. I had to trot about settling many points about
chimes, doors, pavements, pictures, etc. The place now
wants leaving alone again for a bit, to let the novelties
grow old and venerable.

" Difficulties about plans. ... It ended by Winter-
botham and myself biking round by Overcourt and
Holywell. The latter place filled with strangely-dressed

218

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

odd-looking persons — an old man with white whiskers
and a puggaree, a young girl with a pretty discontented
face, a young man of evil appearance. . . . W. was a
little tired by the ride, I think, but he was very gracious
and good-tempered. ... I think he is getting a little
tired, though he won't admit it, of these quiet days.
He seems very content to moon about with me and read
novels. I hope he will pick up business keenly, but I
don't feel sure. Meanwhile he is a perfect companion,
and I have never lived with any one in such peace and
comtort. ..."

*' August 18. — I am sorry it is the last day of our long
companionship. I have never lived on easier terms
with so young a man for so long — and not quite my sort
either, nothing literary or precious about him. But it
has become natural to talk to him with absolute openness
and directness and to say anything that comes into one's
head. ..."

''August 19. — The pitiless heat continues — cloud-
less sky, no hope of rain. I sit wishing W. were
back every minute — and yet with a curious self-sufficiency
and serenity which, when I am well, tides me over
emotional crises. I don't like being thus at all — it is
hard and cold; but it has always been so with me, and
I have suffered very little through my emotions in this
life. My emotion is like a looking-glass; it takes a very
accurate and living picture of a present figure, but is
unchanged by its disappearance, and as lucent-grey and
polished as ever. ..."

" County Hotels Carlisle^ August 31. — Our expedi-
tion was to see the Carlyle country. We went to
Gretna Green, and so to Annan, a grim, trim, respectable,
uninteresting town. We inquired our way at a book-
seller's, where a nice handsome woman, with a rolling
coquettish eye and a pink face, was voluble and confusing.
Just as we were going off she brought up to us a hard-
featured grim lady of about fifty, who introduced herself

219

191 1] THE DIARY OF

as Carlyle's niece, daughter of his sister. She had little
information to give ; but she was very anxious we should
realise who she was, and repeated it several times. . . .
We went to Ecclefechan, a bare lean town, neat enough,
but without any charm. ... It seemed the abode of
dry and prosperous people, with no need for sentiment.
We found a merry old lady, with a broad accent very
hard to follow, who showed us the graves. There are
three, railed in, in a very dreary churchyard. The
central one of solid sandstone covers Carlyle, and his
brother John, the doctor. The kirk is of the vilest
ugliness, red stone, with a spire, ground glass, very
pretentious.

*' We went to the house in the street where Carlyle
was born. It is a white substantial house, with a porte-
cochere in the centre. . . . Here there were many
interesting photographs and odds and ends. It is very
difficult to realise his appearance. When younger he
was dour and underhung; the beard improved him, and
at about sixty he was noble-looking, with the * crucified '
expression: an odd mixture of a peasant and a don, but
always a peasant. In age he was very lean and spidery.
The early pictures of Mrs. Carlyle very lovely indeed,
with a touch of irony; but the pictures of her in 1854
(twelve years before she died) are hauntingly terrible —
the mixture of ill-health and unhappiness very con-
spicuous. . . .

" We then plunged into the country to find Scotsbrig,
the farm where they lived so long, where both father and
mother died, and where Carlyle went so often in his
depressed moods to idle and smoke and walk and con-
template and rage. The pictures represent it as a sort
of hovel, but it's a very nice substantial homestead, with
a good deal of dignity. . . . They had no servant, the
sisters did the house- work; Carlyle had his own room,
was never expected to do anything in the way of work,
and loafed about by himself unquestioned. But the
whole thing is much bigger and more comfortable than
I had any idea of; it seemed to me an ideal little country
retreat. This is another illusion dispelled. . . .

220

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

" The country has nice details; but it is homely and
rather dreary — for use, not for ornament. The low,
irregular hills, everywhere closely cultivated, rather bare,
have no grace of outline. . . . Then quickly back in
rain. A very interesting day, and I am so steeped in
Carlyle that it was all full of meaning.

'* The people are homely too, weatherworn and
bearded farmers, ugly women, nice children. But they
are intelligent and friendly in a rough, independent sort
of way."

" Orchard House Hotel, Gihland^ September 5. —
Spencer Lyttelton arrived at 7.0, very lean and brown
and crisp. Ainger suggested going to Naworth, but
I pleaded for Borcovicus, while it was fine; Naworth
can be seen any day. Ainger said, so mildly, * Very
well, it doesn't matter a bit what we do,' that I knew
mischief was brewing. A quiet, rather broken night,
and a mournful awakening."

" September 6. — Ainger at breakfast threw off
the mask. He said, * As we have settled to go to
Naworth to-day we must start at ii.o.' It's no use
protesting; he is angelic if he gets his way, grim and
fretful if he doesn't. So the car was ordered, and lunch,
and I tried to write some of my endless letters. We
started. Ainger and Spencer seized upon the back-seat
of the car; I sate humbly huddled in front, opened gates,
etc., Ainger saying obligingly, ' I am sorry you should
have so many gates to open.' I hate this sort of thing;
it makes me sulky and furious. That I pay for the
whole show is a small matter. But it seems I have all
the privileges of a host, as far as the servile details go,
and none of the privileges of a host in settling where we
go or what we do. But who is meek and I am not
meek? — as the blessed apostle said with more force than
precision.

" We went to Brampton, bought petrol, strolled about,
and so to Naworth. This is a great castle of splendid
antiquity, like a huge college, with halls and towers and

221

191 1] THE DIARY OF

a chapel, round a courtyard, belonging to Lord Carlisle.
. . . We got to the door, to find that tourists can only
see it from 2.0 to 5.0; but a pleasant-looking woman in
black, who was sitting v/ith two little girls on a stone
seat, got up and greeted Spencer. This was Lady
Mary Murray; she went in and said she would tell Lady
Carlisle. We drifted into a vast tapestried hall, such
a noble room, with armour and pictures. Lady Carlisle
was there, talking anxiously to a careworn-looking man.
She came and greeted us pleasantly; she is pretty and
looks good. She said we might see the castle, but that
Lord Carlisle had been taken very ill; she was waiting
to see a specialist, who was hourly expected. . . .
Then she sent two jolly little girls, her daughters, to
show us everything. They took us up into a tower,
showed us Lord William's bedroom and oratory, which
look out over the woods and the falling river, and chat-
tered away very delightfully; but I was upset by our
unfortunate intrusion, at the wrong time, and under such
circumstances. I couldn't, however, help admiring their
kindness and courtesy. I was thankful to get out of
the place, noble as it was.

" But I don't think that human beings ought to have
such houses at all, and certainly not by inheritance. It
isn't as if they produced nobility of character or a sense
of duty — and they must be very bewildering to the souls
of their possessors. . . .

" When we got in to tea I felt as if I had been out for
several years. Spencer is excellent company, however,
and has a fresh knowledge of people which is highly
entertaining; he seems to know everybody well. . . .
I felt myself very elderly to-day. I have a bad knee,
and I seemed stout, out of breath, hot, stiff and
footsore — quite a pursy old boy, in fact. But I wasn't
tired."

*' Magdalene^ October 11. — It seems so natural to have
Winterbotham domiciled here. He is as ingenuous as
ever. . . . He is a very dear person to me, and I am
grateful for his affection . A delightful letter from Gosse,

222

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 1

and an offer of marriage from a lady in America. My
two books published to-day: Paul the Minstrel (a
reprint) and The Leaves of the Tree.

" Read a curious book, Petrarch's Secretum — a fancied
dialogue between Petrarch and St. Augustine: a very
intimate confession — but the odd thing is to find no
mention of Christ or the Gospel, and to discover
Augustine in the light of a philosopher, quoting Cicero
and Virgil and recommending a sort of Stoicism. The
whole thing is entirely individualistic, and considers
religion as an affair between the soul and God, not
involving any brotherhood with men or love of one's
neighbour. . . .

" To Chapel. The creed was chanted, and the Master,
forgetting the ritual, intoned the Dominus vohiscum.
There was a dead silence, the organist shuffling about.
Then Gaselee, with his mouth like a trumpet and a
furious look, roared, * Arnda weeth thy a-Speereett-a,'
in a brazen voice as of a sacristan, in a stupefied silence —
and saved the situation. . . .

" At dinner I sate next Waggett — rather fractious,
but appealing; then by Pym, the chaplain of Trinity,
and found him delightful; and then by Professor
Newsom, who wants to make religion free from its
old stupidities — an advanced modernist — I liked him,
and his enthusiasm and his impatience with the old
nonsense. . . .

" Frank Darwin brought in Festing Jones, the friend
of Samuel Butler — a tall solemn, quiet man, rather like
Samuel Morley. He didn't scintillate, so of course I
had logorrhea and talked too much. Then a little
talk to Winterbotham, and so to bed."

''November 5. — Woke in depression; but it cleared
off, though all day long I have had touches of that
misgiving, that nausea of the mind which is the trouble.
I have been writing too much, I daresay, and going
ahead rather recklessly. I have a very busy week ahead,
but I will tr)- to take things easier. Keable preached a
sermon — rather moving, but I thought lacking in breadth

223

191 1] THE DIARY OF

of sympathy. He described ' a view of things ' which
was meant to be characteristic of the Modernist — I told
him afterwards it was only * a view of Inge's.* . . .
Winstanley came to dine with me and was very amusing.
I had some talk with G. G. Morris, now Fellow of
Jesus; he is a charming and sprightly little being, and
brought up against me my old criticisms of him in my
division at Eton. ..."

** November 6. — I woke in the real old fierce depres-
sion. I could not shake it off. I went to shoot at Kat's
Hall; we took two undergraduates. It was a fine, bright,
fresh day, with a wind — all conditions delightful. I shot
quite well, even at driven partridges. But a horrid
melancholy hung over me all day, rising at times into a
sort of mental nausea. I do pray I am not going to be
submerged again. . . .

" Back pretty early; but I was very low and gloomy.
I wrote a little. Hall made horrible by peevish and
disagreeable argument. Then a long Kingsley meeting:
an election, and a paper by Barstow on ' Alma Mater ' —
odd views of examinations and dons. The boys are
keen and nice, and I really rather enjoyed this. I
hope the cloud may pass off; but to-day has been a
bad one."

*' November 7. — I awoke a little sea-sick in mind, but
decidedly better. Work soon restored me. . . .

" In the evening I went to dine at St. John's with
Tanner — sate between him and Bateson and was well
entertained. It is a fine place, that hall, and the
great gallery is simply magnificent. Bateson was very
good-humoured. I was in excellent spirits and all went
well. Liveing, the President, is a fine grotesque old
figure. The Public Orator was very civil and came to sit
next me afterwards. He told me a funny story. A
Scotch laird had his school inspected in English literature.
A question was asked about Shakespeare, and a piping
voice said in answer to a question about the plays,
'Macbeth.' 'Did anyone say Macbeth.-^' said the

224

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 j

examiner in strident tones. No one dared to answer.
The laird, who was not up in literature and thought
the word was a childish jest, said afterwards to his
friends, * the best of it was that the little rascal had said
Macbeth.' . . .

*' I came back having eaten, drunk and talked too
much, but with a genial view of the world."

" November 8. — Went to the Royal Society of Litera-
ture: saw Newbolt, Gerothwohl, Prothero, P. Lubbock,
etc. The room was not nearly full. It had been absurdly
mismanaged, tickets wrongly distributed, no notice
given. I ' gollyed ' out my great paper, very rapidly
and very loudly to a meek and amiable audience, mostly
women. A silly affair! Newbolt and Percy seemed to
approve. . . .

" Went to Athenaeum. Then Henry James appeared,
looking stout and well, and rather excitedly cheerful.
He would not talk, but hurried off to order his dinner. I
had induced him not to attend the lecture — it would be
farcical impudence for me to hold forth to him! He
returned at 7.30, and we sate down together. There is
something about him which was not there before, some-
thing stony, strained, anxious. But he was deeply
affectionate and talked very characteristically. He said
of P.'s article on William Morris that it was charming,
but began at the wrong end — that it was a well-combed,
well-dressed figure, and that P. had overlooked the
bloody, lusty, noisy grotesque elements in Morris. * In
these things, my dear Arthur, we must always be
bloody,' . . . He had read Arnold Bennett. ' The
fact is that I am so saturated with impressions that I
can't take in new ones. I have lived my life, I have
worked out my little conceptions, I have an idea how it
all ought to be done — and here comes a man with his
great voluminous books, dripping with detail — but with
no scheme, no conception of character, no subject — per-
haps a vague idea of just sketching a character or two —
and then comes this great panorama, everything perceived,
nothing seen into^ nothing related. He's not afraid of

225

191 1] THE DIARY OF

masses and crowds and figures — but one asks oneself
what is it all for, where does it all tend, what's the
aim of it ? '

*' By this time we had dawdled and pecked through
our dinner — he ate a hearty meal, and there was much of
that delicious gesture, the upturned eye, the clenched
upheld hand, and that jolly laughter that begins in the
middle of a sentence and permeates it all. . . .

" Then he spoke about Hugh Walpole — he said he
was charming in his zest for experience and his love
of intimacies. ' I often think,' he went on, ' if I look
back at my own starved past, that I wish I had done more,
reached out further, claimed more — and I should be the
last to block the way. The only thing is to be there, to
wait, to sympathise, to help if necessary.' . . . He
joined all this with many pats and caressing gestures;
then led me down by the arm and sent me off with a
blessing. I felt he was glad that I should go — had felt
the strain — but that he was well and happy. He is a
wonderful person, so entirely simple in emotion and
loyalty, so complicated in mind. His little round head,
his fine gestures, even to the waiters — * I am not taking
any of this — I don't need this ' — his rolling eyes, with
the heavy lines round them, his rolling resolute gait, as
if he shouldered something and set off with his burden —
all very impressive. ..."

'''November 21. — A call from Walter Durnford,*
looking very neat and smart. He asked me to dine at
King's on the 6th, but I refused. King's, my old college,
is a harsh and indifferent stepmother — no notice taken
of one, no interest felt or expressed.

" Then to lunch . . . three Nonconformists. The
talk was good and solid, but curiously without charm —
no traditions, I think, and very raw humour — the whole
sensible, not attractive. But they seemed to have a
grim free-masonry of their own, which I didn't share.
It is odd how different I felt, and yet I don't know why.

• Sir Walter Durnford, Provost of King's in 1918, died 1926. For another
impression of King's see May 14, 1924.

226

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 j
It seemed to me that they knew a narrower world, and
believed it to be more sterling, honest and simple than

n/lu r^^'^u"? ^^\?'' '^' ?'"'' Syndicate, the centre
of a 1 Cambridge jobbery. It will mean much work
but I like to be included. I don't suppose I shal
effect anything. But it means that I have after
eight years a really recognised position here. Verv
unexpected. ... ^

" It has been a cheerful and lively day, and I have
been m good spirits. Last night I dreamed of swim-
HK^^^lf^K-n ^ ^"T indigo-coloured sea, with strange
cit>-clad hills on the horizon; and two do^s came and
looked in at my window this morning, a brindled lurcher
and a sandy Irish dog; so I am in the mind of the Rods
for good or evil. . . . " ^ '

227

I9I2

Other work might be multiplied and diversified year
by year, but the evening hours of writing were seldom
encroached upon, and the days w^ere few on which a
packet of manuscript was not despatched to the typist
on the stroke of dinner-time. If he published two
volumes in the course of the year they perhaps repre-
sented a third of the year's written work. What
became of all the rest? Some of it would consist of
lectures, addresses, papers to be read before under-
graduate societies, sermons to be preached in his own
and other college chapels, articles for certain monthly
and weekly periodicals (principally the Co?-nhill and the
Church Family Newspaper). But with all this there
was much still left that never came to print — essays,
meditations, sketches, and here and there a complete
book that for some reason had been put aside and
forgotten as soon as it was finished. It happened that
several volumes now followed one another to this fate
in quick succession; for he began to write novels, and
within a few months he had written four or five, and
it was evidently impossible to find room for them all
among his publications of the year. Moreover he
felt at first some diffidence in appearing as a romancer;
for though he had many of the gifts of a storyteller
(as his pupils at Eton well knew), dramatically and
psychologically his fiction might seem a light weight
to be oflFered by an author of his standing. But it
was composed with intense enjoyment, and of this first

228

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1912

batch of his novels he allowed one, Watersprings^ to
face the public. Two other volumes in his more
familiar vein, Joyous Gard and Thy Rod and Thy Staffs
were also written in 1912, and he gave a course of
lectures at Magdalene on William Morris.

The year was marked by his becoming President
of the college — such, at Magdalene, being the title of
the Vice-Master — on the retirement of Mr. A. G.
Peskett. He accepted the office with gratification, and
enjoyed the duty of presiding in hall and at college
meetings in the absence of the Master. Otherwise
his life within and without the college went on
unchanged.

** Riviera Palace Hotels Penzance^ January 6, 19 12. — A
strong gale with hissing rain, the fir-trees swaying, the
sky bleared and stained. ... I feel here in Cornwall
like Polydorus in the JEn^'id. He was slain with many
spears, and they buried him as he was, a perfect
pincushion. Then the spears came up as saplings,
so that when i^neas pulled one up, blood dropped and a
lamentable voice screamed from the ground.

" Gosse became ill again and was seized with pain in
the course of the morning. It rained and blew like the
devil, while Gosse lay on a sofa and stared with haggard
eyes at the fire, an uncut Swedish novel in his listless
hand. He would not eat lunch.

'* There is a constant drift of newcomers. ... A
dreary red-nosed dyspeptic clergyman at one table, at
another a young man who smiles brilliantly to himself,
at another a gloomy whiskered man, with brows drawn
up and corrugated with care, who feeds himself carefully
and compassionately and takes salt with his bananas —
I like to watch all his little ways and manners; at another
an elderly couple, a gross slow-moving old man, and a
haughty female who has once been beautiful and now
looks unutterably bored. A shifting pageant of human
lives, like a big hotel, isn't a very encouraging aftair. It
doesn't give one the idea that life is very happy or satis-
factory. At a place like this the people who come are

229

1 912] THE DIARY OF

mostly fortunate people — with more wealth than the run
of men; but there seem few happy parties or happy faces —
much that is tired and cross and bored and disillusioned.
There is a cross man by the window with a waxed mous-
tache, whose wife, a spectacled wretch, spends the end
of every meal in shaking up for him a phial of purple
medicine. It's no good saying people ought to be more
cheerful ; it requires a good deal of character to be
cheerful if you don't feel it. The wonder to me is
why more of them are not cheerful, why life should
be disappointing, what it is in experience which drains
people of joy and hope, and whether they could help
it. But I expect that many of these people are
really more cheerful than they seem. Shyness in
English people often takes the form of gloomy pride
and hatred. ..."

'"''Magdalene^ January 23. — I began teaching to-day;
the essay was on ' It is the baser part of the soul which
enjoys success.' I was pleased to find that it evoked a
good deal of real interest, and I had some rather
illuminating talks with the boys. Then to lunch.
Walked with the Master and discussed various schemes
and cases with great care. . . .

" Wrote at Morris^ and to hall — after which we had
a long philological talk about the shifting nuances of
words: very interesting: and it's a jolly life, when all is
said and done. It is strange to me to reflect that I am
now in the ninth year of my freedom, and have been
given a life which is if anything too happy in its details
and relations. I won't say that I have been much
happier than I was at Eton, because my two terrible
years intervene. But I like the variety, the absence of
strain, the leisure, with a framework of duties, jar
better.

" Murray tells me he has sold 65,000 of my two
shilling books; and I hear from Smith Elder that they
have sold in England and America over 120,000 of my
other books. That is a marvellous fact to reflect upon.
It seems so odd that I was so dumb for so many years,

230

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1912

that I didn't begin to write prose, except for a few rather
stilted books, till I was over forty, and that then there
should be so many people who care to know what I
think. None of the people with whom I live seem to
care twopence what I think; and yet I have this enormous
audience outside. It means that about half-a-million
people are interested in what I say. That's a big audi-
ence. I can't pretend that I think about the audience
at all, and still less do I think of pleasing them; but it
does show that a good many people do look at things
from the same angle. ..."

" January 25. — I taught all morning, had some boys
to lunch. Then rode, with much quiet content, in
fresher and cleaner weather, round by Haslingfield. . . .
Went to dine at Trinity Lodge: only the Master, Mrs.
Butler, Scott Holland* and myself. It was very delight-
ful. The Master had a cold, but was most benign.
Scott Holland is a really charming person, so quickly
sympathetic, so perfectly ready to follow any lead, with
no idea of taking his own line, but of emphasising yours.
The Master is undoubtedly garrulous; he tells long, not
uninteresting stories, with many parentheses and names
forgotten — the long clue slowly unwinds itself. It's
a large mild refined, tender mind, quite off modern lines,
living wholly in the past, and with a curious value for
distinctions of every kind. . . . His aspect was
venerable and noble, with a black skull-cap, pointed
white fingers, smiling wrinkled brow, pale complexion,
full beard.

" After dinner the Master read, very finely, extracts
from books, took us to see pictures at intervals, told
more and more remote reminiscences, and was rather
too continuous. But it was all very dignified and beauti-
ful. Scott Holland didn't get a chance, but whenever
he did he took it. He is a merry soul and looks very
plump and well, with no sign of wear and tear. It was
a memorable evening, such a fine old scholarly gentle-

* Canon H. Scott Holland, Regius Professor of Divinity at Oxford, died in
1918.

231

1 9 12] THE DIARY OF

man in such a splendid background; but I should have
liked to get S.H. to myself. The Master very affec-
tionate: I was * dear friend/ ' dear Arthur,' and he used
me as a son, made me help him from his chair, took
my arm. And I found I was ' Arthur ' too to S.H. It
was pleasant to be at ease in Zion."

'^February ii. — I began hopefully; it was a warm
day, with sunshine. Found Foakes-Jackson robing
himself in the library, in order to preach. I never saw
any one so inattentive; he seemed to writhe with bore-
dom, stared at windows, scrutinised the brasses, read
calendars. . . . The Master read collects about the
King's return which seemed to be extracts from the
Times leading article. . . .

" Then the Bishop of Edinburgh came in . . . full
of life and sense and interest. We discussed immor-
tality— caste — redemption, and a few other trifles. He
is rather narrow in doctrine, but very wide in sympathy;
and withal wholly simple, void of pomposity and with
no ugly self-importance.

" Then I went off to lunch at Frank Darwin's. I
liked his secluded house among bird-haunted thickets
and little lawns and a bit of water — perhaps a little
rococo, the garden. It seemed miles from Cambridge
in those white-walled sunny little rooms, in a perfect
stillness, with no view of houses. . . . Gosse was in
high form and told many stories with felicitous expres-
sions. . . .

" Then Gosse and I motored to Wimpole, and walked
slowly in the sunny park. He was at his best and it
was a charming time. Back by Bourn. I put him down
at F.D.'s and was glad to think he had enjoyed him-
self. . . .

" Then to dine at Pembroke. There was a funny
courtly old Bishop there, dressed in baggy clothes which
he told us with pride had been Wilkinson's: a dear old
boy, but not intelligent. W^alpole slipped off to preach,
Mason followed; then Carter came in from a sermon,
and so it moved on. But there was a nice Truro atmos-

232

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1912

phcre about it.* To think of Mason as the young
seraphic chaplain, Walpole as a buoyant sort of under-
graduate, Carter as the rather sad layman, myself as a
schoolboy — and to be thus united, in all their dignities.
I did value this all very much, and felt the comfort of
old and faithful comradeship.

" Then home, literally sick with talk; then Gaselec
brought in the Headmaster of Sherborne, and we
murmured on to midnight. But this cataract of talk
in one day is awful; and I get a sort of physical horror
of words, heard and uttered. I stumbled gratefully to
bed and slept sound."

''February 14. — To lunch with Winstanley: Denis
Robertson came, very late. There was a perfectly
enchanting youth there, with the sweetest of smiles
and the most gracious of manners, like the son of
Archestratus. ... I talked too much and too flightily,
but enjoyed it all.

" Then a ride by muddy roads; and by Pembroke I fell
off my bike, which skidded — I tore my trousers, cut
my leg, banged my knee, covered myself with dirt; rode
angrily away with as much dignity as is consistent with
torn clothes and a smudged face. Met Monty James
as I came along, whose look was sympathetic. 1 washed
the dirt all away, but became aware that I must die of
tetanus in three weeks, and spent the evening in a lofty
and mournfully resigned mood. Limped off to dine
with Sir J. J. Thomson, f . . . I took in a deaf Ameri-
can lady with a cooing voice. . . . She could not hear
half I said. Thomson, speaking to her, shouted like
the Sons of God — I never heard such a row in a room.
But the other side of me w^as Mrs. Giles, a nice woman
and a pretty woman. We always talk confidentially,
and she admitted that she had first met me with deep
prejudice, because I was so injudiciously praised by my

• Dr. G. H. S. Walpole, Bishop of Edinburgh, Canon A. J. Mason, at this time
Master of Pembroke, and Canon F. E. Carter, Rector of Hadleigh and Co-Deon
of Bocking, had all served at Truro under Bishop Benson,
t Sir J. J, Thomson, O.M., P.R.S., Master of Trinity since 1918,

1 9 12] THE DIARY OF

King's friends. By whom, I wonder? The comfort is
to talk frankly, as I can to her; and I really have rather
a thrill about meeting any one who literally does open
heart and mind; but she is a flatterer, or at least she
applies the sort of praise to me which women think men
like. I confess I was interested and moved by this
talk. ..."

** February i8. — I walked alone — round John's walks,
now full again (and how soon again) with aconites
and snowdrops. Then by West Road, and finally fell
in with the friendly Tanner, and mooned about talking
of architecture and lecturing. He is a fine, able, solid,
sympathetic creature. He said he was fifty-two — how
the cataract rushes into the abyss — middle-aged men
swimming along, grey-headed men on the edge, senile
locks in the foam! There seemed such an endless well
of time to draw from; and now it would be a long life
if I lived as long as from my leaving Cambridge to the
present time.

" I went off to Trinity and dined with Whitehead, an
undergraduate, in New Court — a cold dinner, on a nice
blue-striped cloth. Two other young men there, so
sensible and nice. . . . Then to Bevan's, where I read
my paper to about twenty people. Bertrand Russell
there, and a strange bearded man who turned out to be
Lytton Strachey. It was rather a fiasco; I was tired and
stupid. There was no discussion. The paper was on
J. A. Symonds. Not worth the trouble — never mind,
one must just go on."

^'February 19. — I feel a little discouraged to-night.
As I drift more and more into University life, I
drift more and more out of the college. I don't see
how it can be helped. At my age I am in place on
Boards and at Feasts, not in place with the under-
graduates. I don't seem to have any power of inspiring
them. I don't aim at that, but at companionship, and
I miss both. ... I think Als Ich Kann is a very good
motto for my new house. I take up many things and

234

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1912

am no good at any one. It's humiliating, but I expect
it's wholesome — anyhow, there it is! "

*' February 26. — A great scramble. . . . Fled to the
station, nearly late: looked over essays and reviewed a
book in the train. . . .

" At 1.45 I was at Queen Anne's Gate: a pretty old
white-painted panelled house, very attractive indeed.
Lord Haldane very courteous and benign: his sister a
rather nice, shy woman, but disconcerting, because
she betrayed by her glances what she was thinking
of. . . .

" Lord Haldane carried me off to his very nice study,
a big airy room at the top of the house: not many books,
but much apparatus for reading, a swing-desk, etc. He
sate in a high chair: smoked two cigars and drank
liqueur brandy, having eaten a big lunch. I broke my
rule and smoked a cigarette. I stated my case.* . . .
He heard me very patiently, and his big smiling face,
pale and intelligent, full of kindness and sympathy, was
very impressive. He heard me out; then he said, ' I see
your idea, and I think it would be well to take it in
hand. , . . ' He let fall many dicta — as that education
was so dull in details, so interesting in principles. He
asked me a good many questions, and then said, ' We
agree in this, that what we want is ideas; the machinery
is there, and it would not spoil the lite and training for
leadership, which is the strong point.' . . . Then I
walked to the War Office with him. He went very slow
and looked rather old and pinched, as if his heart were
not very strong. He gave me the idea of great kindness,
sense, intelligence. . . . Of course he may be only
diplomatic, but I didn't feel that. He promised nothing
and did not commit himself; but he was frank,
sympathetic and encouraging. . . .

I was a little tired; it was hard work talking to
Haldane; one felt in touch with a strong and critical
mind; but I couldn't help being pleased to feel that he

• On a matter of educational organisation. Lord Haldane was at this time
Secretary of State for War.

19 1 2] THE DIARY OF

was giving my view serious consideration. He said that
the reason why he had insisted on seventeen for the new
army age was because the last two years at school were
so wholly wasted. I had a good hour with him. Odd
that I should have worked at education for so long, and
yet I think I may have done more by to-day's talk for
the whole affair than by all my thirty years of
teaching. I am not insensible to the pleasure of
taking my problem to one of the biggest men in the
country and having real and serious attention paid
it. I shudder to think what hot water I should get
into at Cambridge if this bold move of miine were
known. ..."

""March II. — I biked to Selwyn Gardens to see
Verrall.* He lay very still on a couch by a screen,
with darkened glasses, his hands all crooked out of
shape; he was silent, and his face all drawn by suffering —
sometimes like a corpse. But as we talked there came
the old pleasant laugh, and the interest, and the bubbling
sense of humour — that made one feel he was there all
the time, just as lively and eager, only the husk wrong.
It wasn't so sad as I feared; but it is horrible to think of
all his pain and weakness. He can surely never get
back to the world again.'' Yet he is down early, he
reads, talks, even dictates. But I think he goes down-
hill fast. Mrs. Verrall was delightful, and I had a happy
chattering sort of hour. He told me how some one
once read aloud Macaulay's Chatham to Henry Sidgwick
— the passage where Macaulay, quite simply and un-
affectedly, says, * If one compares Chatham with Oxen-
stierna, Albuquerque,' and about six other names — a
plaintive voice said, ' But I don't want to compare him
with Oxenstierna, etc.*

"... Then there was a Kingsley Club meeting
here. Williams read a learned paper on the Welsh
Arthurian legend. . . . But I can't understand the
caring for these legends in themselves. They are inter-
esting to me, not for their crude imaginativeness and

* Dr. A. W. Verrall, King Edward VII Professor of English Literature at
Cambridge.

236

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 2

exaggeration, but for the real possible human core in
the middle of them. 1 do very much want to know
what kind of a person the original of King Arthur
was, and what his knights were really like; I don't
care a bit for the vapourings of childish bards about
them. . . .

" Harold Cox is editor of the Edinburgh Review :
writes a nice note to ask for an article. But I'm not an
Edinburgh Reviewer. My shallow spirit foams out
its passion best in 1,600 extempore words, at one
sitting. . . .

" 1 am rather dull and melancholy. I can't get the
strike out of my head, and I don't seem just now
to arouse the setnina flammae or to chip fire out of
anyone or anything. I think I am really rather
tired. My book records that I have had 123
engagements this term, apart from all teaching — in two
months. ..."

" Tremans^ March 22. — I read some Newman
{Apologia)^ an intensely interesting and pathetic book.
I discern clearly that he was really an artist^ not an
ecclesiastic at all. His love of poetry and music
(he played the violin), his desire for peace and
affection and approval and -praise^ very characteristic.
The last meeting with Pusey and Keble horribly
tragic.

" I walked alone — two hours' quick walking, varied
by a hailstorm; the floods are out, the spring flowers
belated; it is ill-humoured weather. I'm not exactly
depressed, but I am not cheerful, and in much physical
discomfort; but I wrote a little study of Newman easily
and pleasantly. . , . My book {Child of the Dawn)
looks nice, but no notice, good or bad, is taken of it,
and I expect it will fall flat. I had great hopes of it,
and even anticipated a row; but it's going to be a fiasco.
Well, 1 must try again. I wish I had a definite book
on hand; but I am piling up a volume of essays and
writing my lectures on William Morris in a vapid and
inconsequent way. Tiresome correspondence with

237

1 91 2] THE DIARY OF

irrational parsons, and with a man who proposes that
I should read quietly and meditate over a MS. book
of his, then revise and amend it and see it through the
press: all this because he agrees with my books, thinks
me a Christian, believes I want to be of use to
anyone. . . .

" I am close on fifty, and I suppose the best part of
my life is gone; but I have some vitality left, I can write,
I can teach. I might with good luck have twenty more
years of activity. But one might always die, the idea
of which is insupportable; and I might have another
illness. I am not at all likely to marry, or to have any
more romantic adventures. But I think I am. more
interested in affairs and people than ever, and I am
very anxious to help in the cause of common sense,
work and peace. I am still mildly ambitious. . . .
But what I desire is to get at the meaning of life.
I think I am an almost pure agnostic, though I
believe in Christian principles; what vexes me most
is to see people holding on to stupid unimportant
fancies and beliefs, because they have been handed
down. . . .

" And I also feel very strongly the duality of my nature:
a strong stupid slowly-moving old nature underneath,
which goes blindly and bluntly on its way — and
a quick perceptive ingenious inquisitive nature above,
living in brain and eyes, which has no permanence.
That will die, I think, with all its little memories; but
the other will pass silently and stubbornly on its way,
and reappear again, I don't doubt. That is almost all
that I believe."

^' Magdalene^ April 23. — Here was a pretty omen!
As I sate reading at midnight, Gaselee having gone,
my little clock sounded, ushering in my birthday.
All at once my fire, which had been unlit all day, burst
softly into flame! A cigarette-end, perhaps — but it
was a delicate little friandise. Perhaps I might be
rich, happy, famous, fortunate in love yet — who
knows } "

238

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [19 12

''April 24. — I woke calm and serene: had a huge
pack of letters, even presents — with good wishes and
blessings from all sorts of unknown people — even some
plovers' eggs! It's another calm golden day, very sweet.
I have to go to town. . . .

" I went. The country was beautiful. I read
Rupert Brooke's poems, some very charming, some
strangely ugly. . . . To the Royal Society of Litera-
ture, where I took the chair, and heard an incredibly
boring and tiresome paper. . . . Such a dreary party
of faded persons. I made a speech, and was sketched
by a little man in a notebook. Then to the Athenaeum,
where I read, dined, pondered. . . . Failed to catch
Gosse and came back by the last train. Rather an
unbirthday-like day; but I have been cheerful all through.
I don't feel fifrv' — though I notice in myself a dulling,
not of perception, but of the thrill of perception. That
is unmistakable; but I am nimbler in mind, and
I think a little less peevish, ambitious, greedy than
I was. I don't know. . . . Well, I am a very
imperfect creature, that's certain ; but I desire to
be enlarged, though I should like it done without
discomfort."

*' June 1. — I went to lunch with Glaisher. His
rooms in New Court are filled with china. He showed
us a hideous plate with a rudely-drawn female figure on
it (1677) for which he gave a hundred guineas! It
seemed an odd affair. Sedley Taylor, Professor R. (an
American, father of a Magdalene man), Mrs. R., deaf
but nice, and a simply enchanting Miss R. — about
twenty, simple, prett}', so that I really fell quite in love
with her, and watched her every movement and laugh.
That is the kind of creature I should like to marry;
and I really feel what a donkey I am to be fifty, and
yet never to have had the sense to ask some nice
girl to walk through life with me. This clean fresh
pretty lively modest girl would be a delightful partner
— and yet one is kept off it by stupid moods and
fastidiousnesses.

239

1 91 2] THE DIARY OF

" We told endless stories — rather dreary. . . . We
had seven courses and champagne — what a festivity!
But I was entranced and absorbed with the charming
Miss R.J and it made me light-hearted to see and hear
her. Yet this odd emotion will come to nothing.
Oddly enough I had for the first time been teaching her
brother yesterday, a pleasant handsome consequential
young man. . . .

" So this very busy and pleasant term comes to an
end. I have written a book, seen many people, worked
very hard. I have been cheerful and content, though
craving for more leisure — but I don't pretend not to
enjoy it.

" I have given away endless ornaments and pictures
these last few days, and I am going to sell a lot of furni-
ture. I have sent all my china to Fred. What a relief
to get rid of my impediments — I must try never to get
involved in belongings again."

" TremanSy June 19.— Heard of the death of Arthur
Verrall, an old and well-loved friend. He had been
growing weaker, but got up as usual, and died in his
study after half-an-hour's unconsciousness. The last
time I saw him I felt the end was near. He has borne
great suffering very gallantly, and never lost the beautiful
zest and freshness of his mind. . . .

*' I suppose I might be offered the Professorship; but
I don't want it and would rather be excused. I am
only an amateur, and it would mean the suspension of
my activities. I don't care about literature in the right
way. ..."

" June 21. — , wrote to me again about the

Professorship and said he wished I might be appointed.
But I wrote and pointed out that I was resident in
Cambridge and doing a certain amount of literary work
already unpaid, lecturing, teaching, reading papers. It
seemed to me a pity to waste money upon me; we ought
to get in an outside force of some kind. It is very hard
to know one's own mind. I don't need the money, and

240

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1912

indeed it would rather diminish my income, as I should
have to give up a good deal of writing. I am not
equipped by any knowledge for the post; I know a lot
in a desultory way about literary biography and modern
English; I have a gift of presentment; but I am useful
in the college and do a lot of varied work, all of which
would have to go. And then I don't really believe in
literature and criticism, but in something in and behind
it all. I should hate to be for ever lecturing on literary
periods, and I couldn't inspire or encourage men enough.
One would have to be for ever talking big to immature
minds, presiding at societies, looking at essays. I could
not do this with any real enthusiasm; I am not an apostle
of culture at all. Of course all this may be laziness and
self-will, and if it were offered me I should have to face
it. But I hope it won't be offered, and that I may be
allowed to muddle on in my own way.* . . . "

" Magdalene, August 7. — . . . S. much concerned
with the Student Christian movement, and has been to
Swanwick. ... I don't know what to think about it
all. It seems to me rather a limiting of oneself. S., in
his old pure-minded guileless insouciant way, entirely
innocent, not scrupulous, seems to me a finer kind of
Christian than one who goes to meetings and discussions
and uses influence and makes people earnest. This
sort of thing ought to be very spontaneous, or it is ugly
with the ugliness of all conventional and moulded things.
These great forces of life, emotion, love, faith — how
hideous they are when they are run into definite moulds —
how easy for the conventional Christian to miss the whole
point of the affair, its easy graceful light-hearted spon-
taneity! I won't say it seems to me dangerous — nothing
is dangerous — but it seems like a confession of weakness
to organise and stereotype Christian endeavour. . . .
The moment one organises it, ties it up, limits it,
has a syllabus of it, discusses * Christianity and the
State ' at 10.30, and ' Christianity and the Medical
Profession ' at 2.0, that moment it seems to me dreary.

♦ Dr. Verrall was succeeded in the Professorship of English Literature by Sir
Arthur Quiller-Couch.

Q 241

19 1 2] THE DIARY OF

I can't imagine Christ going to Swanwick, and having
four regular meetings and one prayer-meeting a day.
I suppose that people must take their Christianity as
they can and will ; but this seems to me a very business-
like and commercial affair, only fit for people who are
determined to fit Christianity in, and afraid of its falling
out if it isn't placed. I think one ought to be a Christian
through whatever one does and in spite of it, not as well
as it. It seems to me like organising love and hope,
having times to love and times to hope. I don't
know! I don't want to see a man idle and rather
peremptory and censorious, and then find out he is
religious as well. I want to find him gentle and
courteous and kind, and then be surprised by finding
he is a Christian. . . .

" D. and R. to lunch; they were cheerful and not
affected or shy. But Lord, what an old buffer I become!
In a taxi the other day I raised my eyes, and what a
cross stout red corrugated old party looked at me
crossly from the mirror! "

'' Dighy Hotels Sherborne^ Sept. i. — We strolled after
breakfast to the school. It is a very pleasant town,
with many nice buildings of an orange crumbling
stone; but it has been much mauled, and there isn't a
sense of the architectural taste of the Cotswolds. The
Abbey is fine, and an old doorway with valerian and
wall-weeds growing in ledges and niches was pretty.
The school has fine buildings new and old, but is rather
diffuse. . . . We went to the Abbey at ii.o: such
a rich golden church, with fan-vaulting, so wealthy
and stately in tone: big congregation, fine booming
organ, moderate singing: no sermon. Gosse began
by being bored, but found a Bible and read Job with
entire absorption, a model of holiness and devotion,
with the book held to his eyes. . . . As we walked
back afterwards he expressed surprise that the Book
of Job should ever have been thought an old book — so
modern, so rationalistic, so philosophical; it is the
Biblical Plato. . . .

242

R. H. Benson
A. C. Benson E. F. Benson

Tremans
1903

[To face p. 72

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [19 12

" In the afternoon we strolled through the Park, a
fine domain. The old oaks, growing out of a vast
plantation of high fern, with deer grazing, had a certain
feudal charm. But the fine thing was a delicious place
called Milborne Port (in Somersetshire), a village such
as Morris would have loved, stone houses clustering
down to a stream, and a big cruciform church standing
up among byres and orchards — a quite delicious sight.
I do love villages and elms and green fields more and
more. Tried a short cut and failed. Back by Oborne
and a nice street of substantial houses (Long Street)
where the Sherborne upper bourgeoisie live. The sight
of a bare-legged girl under a walnut-tree, driving a flock
of hens with a switch, delighted me. Then came tea
and repose. I am happy and contented here; but my
love of things beautiful and romantic has a little lost its
sharpness, though not its equanimity of delight.

" In the evening Gosse read Tennyson; we are
determined to work through In Meynoriam. But we
find much of it obscure, pedantic, cold, unemphatic,
unpoetical. I am rather horrified to find how it has lost
its charm. Gosse says with a profound sigh, * We must
never forget that poetry must have charm — the one
essential '."

'* Tremans^ September 15. — I am troublesomely lame
just now. I can't do without exercise — I get stupid and
brutal. I walked round by Scaynes Hill, meditating
my story; it opens slowly in front of me, and I have
the same sense of discovering it, rather than inventing
it, as I had in The Child of the Dawn. I wrote for
three hours hard\ then read a little of it aloud after
dinner, and was pleased to think they found the book
had some vitality. Then came Compline, which I
detest with every fibre of my being — the discomfort, the
silly idiotic responses, the false sociability of it, the utter
meaninglessness of the whole absurd drama.

" I must have overworked myself, because on going
to bed and reading Wells's Marriage I found myself in
a very odd, unpleasant nervous state, jumpy, unbalanced,

243

19 1 2] THE DIARY OF

as if my mind were skipping about on its own account
and wouldn't obey me.

" Wells's book is very interesting — not beautiful, not
likely^ much mannerised, and spoilt as a book by a piece
of silly romantic melodrama, the Labrador adventure,
which is nothing but a transcendental and psychological
Swiss Family Robinson. But he's a -poet^ little Wells, and
it's there he scores: not much of a humorist."

" September 17. — . The Cornishes arrived. The
Vice-Provost looks healthier and better than I have seen
him for a long time, less inflamed and of a better colour.
. . . She was very amusing and interesting. They
are indeed a wonderful pair, so distinct, so fresh, so fine,
so distinguished. Mrs. Cornish's determined attempt
to include all in conversation is fine. I can't recall any
of her epigrams, but I liked the strong sharp pecks she
takes at life, like a fowl at an apple, getting home. She
is seldom what you expect her to be — she is uncharitable,
unfair — and then unexpectedly poetical and appreciative.
She casts a light on things. He is very difi^use and
inconsequent, but he has a clear judgment, too, and isn't
taken in — and a wide range. . . . They are beloved
people, and with so much light about them — a fine
handling of life. ..."

** Magdalene^ October 14. — Woke oppressed. There's
an article on my new book {Thy Rod and Thy Staff) which
says it's like a little girl saying how much worse her
measles have been than her little brother's. That's
rather clever and not untrue! I have laid myself open
to much ridicule; yet there's a flaming trumpet-blast in
the C.F.N.

" I went to chapel, to my usual place (there was a
feather-boa in it!) Then the Master came across, when
the voluntary stopped, and led me by the hand to the
President's stall; he was nervous and his hand shook.
Then he said the formula — * Auctoritate mihi commissa
ego Praefectus admitto te A.C.B. in locum et officium,
in titulum et dignitatem Praesidis hujus Collegii, in

244

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1912

nomine, etc' — and I bowed low to him. He gave me
a little shake of the hand, smiled, and the service began.
. . . The singing was horrible, but I rather liked my
new place; it's a spacious stall, ttuitwu luerpoi'. I sup-
pose it's my last and only promotion; and I like a little
touch of gilding. , . . The Master preached a really
rather impressive sermon on simplicity — no rhetoric —
it came out of his own mind. . . . He spoke of
the multiplicity and complexity of his new cares.* I
caught Gaselee's eye and we remembered that they
included two days' shooting in the first week of
office. ...

'* I wrote; and then came hall, where I spouted the
grace and sate in Moses's seat. ..."

• As Vice-Chancellor of the University, 1912-13.

245

The round of Cambridge, Tremans, Skelwithfold,
and two or three country inns was followed this year
as usual, scarcely interrupted save by an occasional
excursion — to Birmingham, to Norwich, to Upping-
ham and elsewhere — for the delivery of a lecture.
He still wrote novels, but still judged them in general
unequal to the test of publication; he gathered from
the Church Family Newspaper a number of his articles
into a volume called Along the Road; and in the autumn
he gave his fourth series of literary lectures at Magda-
lene, this year on Robert Browning. Nothing could
now have induced him to depart from the accepted
routine of his days, but within it his energy was
undiminished; at fifty he had a young man's health
and vigour — health which endured with small atten-
tion paid to it, vigour which had to be daily absorbed
in the exercise of his relentless walks and rides. He
seemed to be never tired and never unwell, and
perhaps he was as nearly satisfied by life as a man
could be.

Yet this is hardly the impression that is given on
the whole by the diary. From the diary — which, be
it remembered, is about forty times as voluminous as
this present selection — it might appear that life
crossed and vexed him not a little. I am not
referring to the refrain of his lament over his want
of leisure, nor to his occasional hours of misliking for
the nature and quality of his work. These are to be

246

A. C. Benson
191 I

C. Vanduk

[To face p. 246

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [19 13

freely discounted; he hated leisure, and he loved his
work too well to turn against it except in a passing
mood. But it might often be inferred, in these years,
that the people in his world were a small pleasure to
him — not the people who casually came and went,
but rather those who stayed in it, his friends; it might
be supposed, from the plentiful pages devoted to
their sins, that his friends were harassing company in
a life that would have been happier without them. He
was conscious himself of this propensity of the diary
to scold, and sometimes he thought of destroying
the whole of it for its want of charity. But in truth,
if the volumes are read aright, it can be seen that his
friends were not denied a particular tribute. His
pen grew very mordant as it pursued them, but it
could never leave them alone, never overlook them
or pass them by; and this must be for the consolation
of the victims, who will think it a truer compliment
to be scarified than to be ignored. So much we
may admit, but it does not follow that we are prepared
to take our punishment in public — nor indeed that
we invariably allow its justice. His hand was hasty,
it was apt to be a word and a blow with him as he wrote ;
and it was the sharpest word, the most telling blow
that satisfied him, not always the fairest. It was all
on paper, however, nowhere else; and presently he
and these wretches of friends were together again,
and the shocking pages were utterly forgotten. To
oblivion as deep they may now return.

''January I, 1913. — A lot of New Year letters — such
odd well-meaning people. One man writes to censure me
for not being more dogmatic; I reply telling him to
beware of spiritual pride. . . . One lady says she has
read all the reviews of my book and she feels that
reviewers have no hearts. So it goes on.

" I caught an afternoon train . . . and drove to
St. Paul's. I liked the fine gloomy house,* all shut in
by warehouses. Mrs. Inge gave me tea, and then

• The Deanery, St, Paul's.
247

19 1 3] THE DIARY OF

showed me, bare-headed, the way to Blackfriars Station.
I got to Caxton Hall and sate in a corner. I saw Arthur
Carr, the Bishop of Edinburgh, and some other buffers
in the audience. Inge entered very briskly, quite the
Dean. I thundered out my paper [" Religious Educa-
tion "] for nearly an hour. It was unorthodox. . . .
Several people spoke: a wild female in tears, who was
insane, I think — ejaculating ' the poor children — their
poor little minds! ' at intervals: a blind parson and some
nice females. I answered as clearly and politely as I
could. There were 200 people there, one of the best
meetings and best debates, Inge said, they had had.
Then I went off with Inge, and by underground
to the Deanery. We went up to see the children,
but my godson and two little girls were asleep —
but Edward roused himself from a chubby sleep to
shake hands. . . . Miss Sichel, Simpson (Canon)
and his wife to dinner. It was merry and intelli-
gent. ...

" I slept ill, hearing the great bells beat into the
room hour by hour."

" Magdalene^ January 29. — In the afternoon I motored
out to Eversden and walked home — such a prett)' quiet
remote village, with a few cottages, a farmhouse or two,
a crumbling church among orchards and pastures. I
have a deep desire to live more in such places. It is
off the main road, hidden in trees, utterly quiet and
simple. Yet I couldn't live there, I know — my terrors
would gather about me; yet as a child I could have lived
there with perfect delight, and never have wished to
leave the place. Business and sociability have laid
strange hands upon me, and I can't be happy without
stir and fuss, though the prospect of busy days nauseates
me. I hope that before I die I may have a little taste
of very quiet and still life. The little orchard-ends
and lanes and cottages seemed very dear and beautiful
to me to-day; and I believe that life ought to be lived
on quiet lines. I was very happy there for an
hour. ..."

248

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1913

''January 31. — A hideous day of impatient work:
many letters to answer, but I had to teach all morning:
had men to lunch. Press Syndicate from 2.30 to 6.0.
Letters again: dined hurriedly and insufficiently: went
to Newnham. Coffee in Miss D.'s room in Peile Hall:
a pretty girl, Miss S., and some meagre and shawled
dons. Then to a big lecture-room crowded with
Misses. Here I lectured on the art of fiction, and liked
the look of my audience; it was like preaching to canaries.
Three who giggled and talked at the back of the room
disconcerted me. I was then shown out by Miss Stephen
and the two girls. Rather a jolly pretty business,
but I am not puellis idoneus. I felt a harmless old
buffer — I haven't the sex in my heart. Back, and
wrote letters."

''February 3. — Off to town by the 4.30: to the
Athenaeum and wrote letters: found Basil Champneys
and Sir F. Clay going to the Literary Society. Went
there myself, the only man in mufti. A big gathering.
... I sate between Newbolt and Prothero and had a
really delightful evening — such kindness from every
one. I expect it means that I am no longer shy, and
expect friendliness — and certainly get it. I should like
to think it means literar)' renown, but I feel myself more
and more unregarded in that respect. I am taken as
a mild literary hack, who turns out a lot of sentimental
and rather mawkish books. I am simplv accepted as
a don with a certain output of writing which men of
taste don't read. I don't resent this, though I wish it
were otherwise. I am just labelled as a more or less
well-known writer; but the result is that every one knows
just what I am, and they are accordingly civil. I have
my place, in fact — not a big place, but a definite
place. ..."

" February 8. — I struggled with letters all the morning.
Then two boys to lunch, and a walk with Salter from
Harlton through Haslingfield; he was ver\' gay and
amiable. . . , One thing he said which struck me —

249

1913] THE DIARY OF

that my books were not real books, didn't represent my
real self — that it was a sort of pose (he didn't use the
word), a mild kind religious sort of atmosphere, while
in real life I was brisk, profane, worldly. It is true that
my books represent my lonely thoughts and moods, and
that in ordinary intercourse I am different. I am too
anxious to get on friendly terms with my companions.
But the books are much more real than the talks. I
have no real use for humour and amusing things — those
are things to -play with — and though I expect the impres-
sions are different, yet there's no insincerity. . . .
Anyhow I can't help it. There are two quite distinct
things in me, my social self and my solitary self, and
they are very different. . . . "

''February 11. — Went off at 2.45, much fussed
and leaving loads of work behind. I had my hair
cut, and then to the Deanery [Westminster]. Had
tea with Herbert and Mrs. Ryle; then sate a little in a
nice panelled parlour, used by Robinson as a private
study, with a closet opening on the nave. . . . Then
dressed. Lord and Lady Fortescue arrived, the former
shy and nervous, in red ribbon ; Lady F, most charming —
she said she was never allowed to see me at Eton, be-
cause Ebrington always said, ' Mr. Benson hates mothers.'
A Count William Bentinck there, a nice youth. Then
Prince and Princess Alexander of Teck arrived, he in
red ribbon and star, she very pretty and charming. . . .
Then came the Duchess of Albany, very stout and
cheerful. . . .

*' At dinner the Duchess, who was next me, was full
of kindness and mirth . . . advised me to marry, the
right person, asked about my books, gave me advice just
in the old motherly way — she is a real dear. . . .

" Then to the Abbey, so grand in the glimmering
light, with a little mist floating in the vault. I sate
under the lantern. There was a lovely programme of
music — Arcadelt, Bach, Wagner, etc., played by Bridge,
with some vocal music — one or two pieces with bells
(really metal bars), which he was very keen about, but

250

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1913

which I thought hideous — out of tune, and the percus-
sion notes not blending with the wind-notes. But the
music steaHng or rolling through the aisles, the faint
light, the high dim windows, the ghost-like monuments,
were as beautiful as anything on earth could be. The
best we can do! . . ."

" March 7. — Burne- Jones* wired to say he was coming
down; I asked him to lunch here. Taught all the
morning. He came to lunch — very amusing. . . .
Then he went to the Fitzwilliam, and I had a short,
sharp ride by Coton. Back at 3.15, and we went to
the Dolmetsch concert of ancient music in the hall.
We sate in the galler)', behind Lady Braybrooke. The
place was crowded with odd and faded undergraduates —
from King's: the dais full of strange, brightly-painted
harpsichords. Dolmetsch, a man of sixty, a mass of
grizzled hair, pointed beard, low collar: Mme. D.
dressed as in a Medici picture: and a tall grim
lady in a blue shawl, who sate gloomily in the
background. . . .

*' Dolmetsch showed his lutes and viols and talked on.
' The old people used to make music for themselves,
in a room just such as this. Now we pay to hear noise;
we do not hear music, it is noise we hear! What I am
going to play to you is awfully beautiful, awfully simple,
but really quite beyond the reach of the modern people.'
He described the instruments. . . . Then some odd
tinkling things were played on virginals and lute —
sounds as if one had shaken up a cage of mice and
canaries together. . . . There were just one or two
lovely things, a duet for two viols, a recorder solo; the
rest was very barbarous, I thought. But the thing
interested me — the strange pose, the unreal air of the
whole, and yet the certainty that these odd creatures
really lived in their absurd art — a curious mixture of
admiration and despair, with a strong desire to giggle.
It was all so real and yet so fanatical, as Dolmetsch
glared over his recorder, or sate with his mop of hair

• Sir Philip Burne- Jones, died in 1926.
251

1913] THE DIARY OF

tinkling on the virginals. Such an odd world to live
in — it reminded me of Evelyn Innes. We went away
after Part I, the absurdity of it being uppermost. The
collection of people listening with grotesque earnestness
to these very odd sounds, the deliberate antiquity of it
all, the sweeping aside all the progress of the art — it
interested me as a revival of what the old world called
music — and the sense that they probably found the
same emotion in it as we find in the new music. It is
all a symbol, of course; but few people there understood
that — they thought it was the thing itself which was
beautiful. . . ."

''March 15. — At i.o I drove to the station and
caught the 1.37. ... A great north-west gale blow-
ing loud. The Brandon country is delicious, with its
bare heaths and pines, and streams of sapphire blue,
wind-ruffled, among pale sedge-beds. Then it became
Norfolk, an attractive country. ... So to Cromer,
where I was met by a car. It was awfully cold. I
liked the look of Cromer^ its gay red houses among the
little sea-woods, and we went by pleasant wooded roads,
through sparsely inhabited lands [to Holt]. I found
Howson, got tea, went to the hall: delivered a lecture
on Hans Andersen, wholly without nervousness. The
boys looked very jolly. They are so friendly here. The
captain of the school came up and talked, and a vivacious
handsome boy, Graves, son of C. L. Graves, came to
ask questions. Then back to dinner. . . . A lot of
masters came in to desert. We smoked and discussed
the prospects of the school up and down till 1 1.30. . . .
I like the way in which the boys walk in at any time,
to ask questions, even during dinner. Howson is a
good host, not fussy, genial. . . .

*' I am glad to have done this; it's tiring, in a way,
but my nerves seem to be strong. ... I am glad to
find the masters feel confidence in me. Howson
introduced me to the school as one who worked very
hard for the welfare of Holt, mostly in the background ;
and it is interesting to have to do with a place like

252

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1913

this. It is a good little break, a wash of outside
interests through the mind, and the sight of all those
jolly handsome friendly boys did me much good. I
am to come down and address them in chapel next
term. ..."

^' March 17. — I went round my garden with Don-
caster, who, like God in Paradise, pronounced it all
to be very good. Then lunched alone, and rode off in
bright sun and high wind along the Huntingdon Road.
It was slow work. There came a blackness out of the
north-west, and then ghost-like sinister wisps of grey
cloud, whirling and forming and vanishing on the black
background; then hea\y snow, flying along the ground.
I turned aside to Boxworth for shelter, in the well-
warmcd church, full of pretty Kempe windows — but,
oh dear me, how depressing to see exactly the same
figures and patterns and faces over and over again —
the same mild old men, eyes far apart, woolly-haired, in
the same heavy copes — not a single detail of face or
robe or colour that one hasn't seen a hundred times
before. How could the old man go on turning it all
out everlastingly? But I suppose that's just what critics
might say I am doing.

*' I got back drenched through and through with
melted snow; wrote a paper called * Prophets of
Baal ' . . ."

" April 24. — My fifr)--first birthday — a quite lovely
day. I had a charming picture sent me by Mrs. R. —
some flowers, by an Italian — a book from Maggie . . .
and other books and letters. I had a busy morning of
writing, much interrupted. Then in the golden after-
noon a long vague ride out to Whittlesford, blest with

peace. I find I have forgotten 's review already!

Then some writing. Monty James, Gaselee, Salter to
dinner: much talk and laughter, and cards later — so I
had a very happy birthday. I didn't look backwards
or forwards. I have got my work and my place and
my friends, and I must just peg away. I'm abundantly

253

1913] THE DIARY OF

contented and very much interested in life as it
comes."

** June 10. — The Vice-Chancellor, full of affairs,
came to see me at breakfast and arranged that I
should attend at the Lodge for the great men to sign
their names. ... At 1.30 I arrayed myself and went
off. The recipients of degrees arrived one by one.
Wagner, the great political economist, who became
famous by suggesting the annexation of Alsace, is an
old weary leaden-coloured red-eyed man, hung all over
with orders, frail, tired, sparsely-haired. He is a peer
of Prussia — but what a sorry sight ! — he looked like an
old purblind maggot. I wouldn't come out of my
dignified retirement in Germany at the age of eighty
to receive a degree in England. There was a jolly
admiral, Fawkes, in full uniform — a calm, genial big
man, who looked very solid and splendid, and quite
capable of defending the country. . . . Sargent, a big
burly sanguine man, with large rather protruding eyes,
might have been an admiral too, or a city man — not a
bit like an artist. Hardy (in a LL.D. gown by mistake)
looked very frail and nervous, but undeniably pleased.
. . . Then we all adjourned to hall. I read grace
sonorously, and found myself at the end of the high
table, between Sargent and Hardy. . . . There were
two or three brief speeches. Then we adjourned for
coffee; and then my car came up, and I helped shambling
Doctors in and sent them off.

" When they were all gone I flew back, changed, and
rode into the country—very sweet and fragrant. I went
to Comberton and back. But my nerves are in good
order, and I didn't find the ceremony at all trying —
so that I didn't wish to be out of the busy world
at all — rather amused indeed by the fuss and show.
. . . It's new to me to find myself being pointed
out as I walk about, and seeing myself much
observed. It isn't a very lively satisfaction — but
how grand I should have thought it twenty years
ago. . . ."

254

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1913

" Tremans^ Jt^ne 27. — writes me a much-
injured letter; he protests that I asked him his opinion;
he says he grieves to see my beautiful power of expres-
sion not engaged on something * tougher and tighter.'
But he protests his devotion, though he says he is vexed
that I should so often have to talk and think harshly
of him.

" To all this — which is rather morbid — I reply that
I never think harshly and only talk pettishly because
I am vexed to see him so quiet and decisive. I explain
that my whole attitude is that of mortified vanity. I
began very unambitiously — then had some successes —
then an ad captandum move. I compared myself to a
nigger minstrel rolling his eyes and capering and waving
bones — and people just looking through him.

" Oh dear, I wish I knew what it all really was. I
have a quiet spirit in some ways; but I suppose we have
all a touch of something morbid and not quite controlled
— as Maggie's collapse shows — which papa had, but
coupled in him with great physical strength. There is
a touch of diseased self-consciousness about us all, I
think.

" My own real failing is that I have never been in
vital touch with anyone — never either fought anyone or
kissed anyone! Like Dmitri Rudine, I can neither be
soldier or lover — and this not out of any principle, but
out of a timid and rather fastidious solitariness. Then
I have an appetence for success — or for sensation, at all
events — and don't want to take trouble. I have quick
perception and a love of beauty, but I can't finish or
perfect anything; and so a sort of ineffectiveness is very
legible in all I do — something inevitably there; and I
don't like to be confirmed in this suspicion, however
tenderly and faithfully. That is why I am so provoca-
tive; but I don't think it grand or dignified, quite the
reverse. Just now I'm not epris with anyone —
and that's a part of my unhappiness; though I'm not
unhappy in the technical sense at all, only vaguely
disquieted and feeling as if I were losing time every
day. ..."

19 1 3] THE DIARY OF

''August 3. — *Lord R. Cecil went off in his
motor. Jack Talbot went off, too, and I was taken to
task for saying to him, ' I'm glad to have met
you again,' as too American — but it was natural
enough. Then looked at the visitors' book, which
is full of pleasing sketches; I see I was last here in
1903. Talked to Robin Strutt. He told me a good
story of false induction. A man at Trinity, in the
attics, used to play a piano very badly; his neighbour,
whenever he did so, got out of window and put a
slate over his chimney; and the man consulted his
scientific friends as to why his playing on the piano
always made the fire smoke. . . . Then my car
came and I made very cordial adieux and rolled off
through the village. ... I was back [at Cambridge]
before i.o: read letters and papers. I am rather
tired.

'* But I liked my visit, though it was hard work. I
wish I could listen more equably; but I feel I have to
work hard and to get into relations with all the party.
That is my bourgeois way. But I don't think I want
to be liked — I rather desire just to be as acceptable as
possible at the time — to take my part. I find I can
talk orij the whole more coherently and even amusingly
than most; but I don't much want to — it is a sort of
strain, a performance. ..."

" August 25. — I read the life of Ruskin, and think it a
fine book, rather too detailed in places. It's not much
good going into details about his artistic work; the
thing is to give a picture of his frenzied and harried
industry, and the charm of his outer life all the time.
Ruskin is a curious instance of a man whose success was
wholly due to his impassioned autobiography; but the
British public is such an ass that he ostensibly owed his
success to the fact that he came solemnly riding in upon
the philosophy of art. He explained nothing and
synthesised very little; it's only a logical statement of
passionate preferences. But the B.P. has got to think

* At Terling, in Essex, staying with Lord and Lady Rayleigh.
256

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1913
that it must be taught something definite, worth th'

money.

" Tremans^ Sunday^ August 31. — Hot and heavy, with a
warm rain faUing which rustles in the trees. I slept
deep and long last night, with infinitely mournful
dreams; but that clears off the irritability that comes of
light and broken sleep. . , .

" In the afternoon I walked somewhere, meditating
on my stor}^; wrote a passage: then came dinner, and the
tiresome Sabbath Evening. We have talked all day and
at ever)' meal, and yet it is now impious to play a game —
we must sit and talk! The thought of compline always
weighs heavily on me, and reduces me to sulky despair;
it was as awful as usual to-night. The solemn gathering
for such a ceremony — that twelve ordinary people should
cry out in concert ' Thou shalt go upon the lion
and adder; the young lion and the dragon shalt
thou tread under thy feet ' — seems to me a sort of
idiocy. It isn't true as a statement; it isn't poetical or
uplifting. I can just understand one beautiful voice

reading it aloud; but when it's a pack in full cry !

Fancy reading ' Swiftly walk over the western

wave so

" Hugh and I had an argument; he admits that he
himself is not much ' hampered ' by services, but he says
they represent the idea of corporate worship. Well, I
can understand combining for pleasure^ as at a dinner-
party of chosen friends, or combining for use^ as at a
meeting to discuss some point about which one wants
different views, or for action^ where numbers tell. I
can't conceive combining for ceremony^ unless one likes it.
I don't believe that such worship is more pleasing to
God than the croaking of frogs in a marsh; and I should
have thought that if it's a mystic kind of rite, one wor-
shipper who hates it, thinks it ridiculous, wishes he
wasn't there, must break the circuit. Hugh says it
may be that one has grown out of it — and I certainly
used to like ritualism — but it may also be atrophy. I
don't think it much matters whether one grows superior

257

19 1 3] THE DIARY OF

to mountain climbing, or too stout for it — it comes to
an end naturally enough."

** September 4. — A hot windy day; I'm still a little

edged, I find. Wrote in morning, some of these d d

Oxford and Cambridge Joint Board reports having to be
rewritten. Then after lunch I walked alone by Birch
Grove, and a delightful wood-path up to the Danehill
road. . . .

** Then wrote fiercely, and not only got on, but saw,
glimmering through a haze of words, the end of my
story ahead. The novel was begun in June, here —
10,000 words were written. Then I wasted much of
July and August in writing a shapeless book, 40,000
words, on ' Fear.' Then I wrote 33,000 words of the
novel at Cambridge. Then I came back here, and in
nine working days I have written fully 25,000 words —
and I foresee six more chapters, say 20,000 words
more."

'* September 7. — I must have written 45,000 words
of my novel in the last fortnight, I think. Is that
possible.'^ It isn't very bad. It wants some smoothing
down.

" I walked alone. . . . But I was stupid and heavy-
hearted. All the same I wrote a very energetic bit of
my novel, the best scene I have yet written, and I really
think dramatic ; thus leaving myself with only one more
chapter to write, as the book is planned. It may
need two."

" Ludlow J September 15. — I was wakeful, but not
unhappy. At some dim hour there rang out a knell,
accompanied by the howling of a dog. I slept again
and woke to a day of bright sun. ... I wrote a few
letters : had a comforting one from Percy, surprised that
I ever feel futile! I seldom feel much else, but I twirl
plates, like a conjuror, so that the * awful inner sense '
supposes that something must be going on above. . . .
The only shadow on my mind is that IVatersprings

258

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [19 13

is published to-day, and I fear may be thought a foolish
sort of book. . . .

*' A lot of letters, mostly from well-meaning admirers:
a touching one from a girl, unnamed. It is odd to be
regarded as a well of light and comfort. Perhaps if
I valued it more, as Oliffe said yesterday, I should do
better. But I like to have a free hand and I don't
respect art, and I don't value influence — so that between
these three stools I fall to the ground. . . .

" It has been a pleasant time here. I have done very
little work and have been much in the air. Oliffe has
proved an interesting if provoking companion, and I
think he has enjoyed it. It is a friendly and well-
managed hotel; but our sitting-room is noisy, and there
has been a great passage of visitors. Still, I have been
well and mostly cheerful, though anxious and a little
cumbered with cares."

''Magdalene^ November i. — Dined at the Lodge at
8.0: the only guest Thomas Hardy, who was very simple,
merry and comfortable. We discussed the ceremony of
installation*. . . . The Master was afraid that Hardy
might dislike a religious service. But Hardy said that he
wasn't afraid of a service or a surplice; he used to go
to church three times on a Sunday; it turned out that he
often went to St. Paul's and other London churches, like
Kilburn, and knew a lot about ecclesiastical music and
double chants. He had ordered a complete set of robes,
too — bonnet, gown and hood. This restored the
Master's confidence. We sate and talked and smoked;
and the old man wasn't a bit shy — he prattled away very
pleasantly about books and people. He looks a very
tired man at times, with his hook nose, his weary eyes, his
wisps of hair; then he changes and looks lively again.
He rather spoiled the effect of his ecclesiastical knowledge
by saying blithely, ' Of course it's only a sentiment to
me now! ' He said something like ' I wish you had
some name for the college to avoid confusion with

• Mr. Hardy had been elected an Honorary Fellow of Magdalene, and had
rome up for his admission.

259

1913] THE DIARY OF

Magdalen Oxford.' I corrected him and said, * You
ought not to say you^ you must say we,^ He chuckled
at this and said, ' Very well, we and our college.' "

" November 2. — I went into the library at 10.25 ^^<^
found Hardy in a surplice, with a gown (scarlet) over it.
Gaselee was perturbed and said, ' We must try to think of
it as a ca-p-pa magna.' The Archdeacon of Zanzibar was
there, an odd mixture, in appearance, of a woman, a
Chinaman, and a seminary priest. We formed a
procession, and the Master asked me to join it. He and
Hardy went up to the altar; the men stared at the little
figure, all ablaze. . . . The Master admitted him in
Latin, standing by the altar, walked down with him., and
put him in my old stall. There was a temporary
organist who played badly, and the music was horrible.
The Archdeacon preached rather well, on God being a
God of desire^ who both hated and loved — not a mild
or impersonal force.

" When we came out I took Hardy to my house,
and he, as a former architect, was amused at my devices.
He sate for half an hour and talked. He said he was
amazed at my output. He said he couldn't write now,
only a bit of verse at intervals; he was ashamed of his
little book of republished stories and surprised at its
good reception. I said that I wasn't an artist, only an
improvisatore — no quality in my work. He said, ' Oh,
you must leave other people to say that, if they choose.*
He looked tired, but bucked up, and I walked back to
the Lodge with him. . . .

*' At the end of dinner the Master proposed Hardy's
health in a few very nice words; we rose and drank it.
Hardy sate there beaming, drank and nodded back, but
didn't speak. . . , He said, * I should like to think I
should come here often, and I mean to — but the flesh is
weak! ' I liked the old man very much, so simple and
confiding. He told me he had enough verses for a book,
but he didn't know whether he ought to include it
in some verses he wrote when his wife died — ' very'
intimate, of course — but the verses came; it was quite

260

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1913

natural; one looked back through the years and saw
some pictures; a loss like that just makes one's old brain
vocal! ' . . .

" November 28. — I went off to town: at Fishmongers'
Hall had some talk with various people: luncheon and a
Sanatorium Committee. . . .

" We went down with Inge to Caxton Hall*. . . .
The speakers took seats at the table — Yeats, Hewlett,
Raleigh, myself, Binyon. Raleigh opened and intro-
duced Masefield; Hewlett made a very ineffective little
speech about Mrs. Woods. Then I bawled my pane-
g}Tic of Inge — he didn't hear a word, and Gosse clapped
me as if he were scaring birds. Binyon made a neat
little speech about Beerbohm. . . . James Stephen
was the [Polignac] prizeman: a little man with upstanding
hair, like a pixie or elf, came up and took his cheque. . . .
Inge and came and said he would try to live up to my
words; and after a few more scrappy words I got
away to the Athenaeum, where I dined and read
books."

" December 4. — I read an article on rhetoric in the
Times, which opened a door to me. How odd those
suddenly opened doors are — I saw in a sudden flash that
the thing to do in writing is not to argue, not to concern
oneself with opponents — just to dip up what water one
can out of one's own wells and leave it. The only
fine things come out of the lonely part of the mind, out
of the region where one loves and hopes; the stale things
come out of the place where one jostles and scores off
people. I don't make vows now; but a suggestion
like this sinks into the mind and bears fruit in due
season. . . .

'* I received a fixed offer from the Century — /!200 for
five essays, and a book to follow.

" Then a hurried ride in wind and some rain by Hasling-
field — fresh and chill. Then I began to write an essay

• Meeting of the Academic Committee of the Royal Society of Literature and
admission of new members.

261

19 1 3] THE DIARY OF

for the Century: dined in hall, a very friendly little party:
and went to Quiller-Couch's symposium — about forty
men, all round the room, smoking and whispering.
Two little papers were read, and I liked the calm
humorous way in which Q.C. raised points; I shudder
to think of doing it — but he did it well. There wasn't
much talk; I hazarded a few remarks, but I think I
rather oppressed the party. I had been told that I was
to be * drawn ' by the Kingsmen, but anything less like
baiting I never heard. The affair hadn't much vitality,
but it is a good thing to start. The room which I
furnished and replenished is nice enough, with my
books and shelves. ..."

" December 6. — I had a note from Ainger telling me
of Spencer Lyttelton's death, to my great grief. I had
known him some thirty years, ever since '84. He had
a wonderful way of making one feel that he welcomed
one and enjoyed one's presence, and that it was a natural
and genuine delight to him; this gift is denied to many
more strenuous and virtuous people. I used to be
afraid of his gruff manner, his ' Hah ! ' or his downright
* You appear to be totally unacquainted with the matter *
— but grew to realise his real tenderness and sweetness,
always fresh, but which increased with years. His
handsome, rather grim face used to melt from within,
and his eyes become kind.

" The Times says rightly that he was always an
amateur, at politics as well as cricket. He never struck
me as having any intellectual principles, or views, or moral
aims; he had not thought out anything and didn't know
what he thought. He was interested in travel and
personality, and all he did was in the style of the accom-
plished amateur. He read a great deal — why, I never
knew — books flowed over his mind like water. But
though he was idle, unoccupied, inhospitable, and in a
way selfish, yet he never became peevish or fanciful
or cross-grained or faddy — always just as simple and
boyish and active. And on the whole I expect he
did more to make a great number of people happy than

262

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1913

hundreds of people of the typ^j with far nobler

programmes.

" He was a humble man, for all his assurance. It
is very strange that he should be gone; he seemed built
for many years of life; but it's a happy passage. I have
the letter he wrote Ainger on November 21 about an
operation — ' It is an unexpected blow, but it must be
faced.* He was operated on on Monday, December i,
and he died on December 5. That is the way to leave
the world. ..."

" December 21. — . Wrote an article — not very good;
I am stodgy. I found a very unpleasant attack on
my writing in the British Review; I am complacent,
condescending, superfluous, otiose, it seems. I am well
aware that I am not among the writers of the day. I
don't attract; my vogue is over for the time. I have
got my own little public, and cater quite simply and
peacefully for them; but it is a priggish, sentimental,
solemn, ineffective sort of public. ... I don't
suppose that the very busy life I live now does help
my writing; but I don't see at present how to
disentangle myself from business; and it gives me
variety of experience, as well as some health of body
and mind. . . .

It is curious, as Percy says, that I can't get a certain
acidity of perception and a derisiveness of phrase into
my books. In my books I am solemn, sweet, refined;
in real life I am rather vehement, sharp, contemptuous,
a busy mocker. But I am also somewhat of a fatalist.
However, I am going to try to leave the Lx)ng free for
writing, and to have a subject ready to begin upon. . . .
I think I ought to be able to write rather a good story —
if I weren't really so /azy: that is the main trouble, my
hurried exuberance. ..."

** Tremans^ December 3 1 . — A photographer arrived,
and we were taken in a group exactly as we were taken
ten years ago, in the same positions. I found that I
still had the very same coat in which I was photographed

263

1913] ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

before ! It is the photograph which has been constantly
reproduced. , . .

" The end of the year- — I don't like to forecast any-
thing or to make resolves. I have had a touch of my
depression to-day — just a hint that it was there; but I
exorcised it by work. I was awake at midnight. 1913
has been a much-abused year, but it has been good to
me. I have been well and busy; I thought I had made
a new friend, but I am in doubt now about this. And
so I say good-bye to it as I do to a host when I have
been kindly and punctually entertained."

264

XII

I9I4

Some pages from the diary of 19 14, before the out-
break of the war, will show that the mood of dis-
satisfaction with his life and work continued to haunt
him; but this was a mild and transient melancholy
which had nothing in common with the miseries of
his years of illness. He might sigh to think that his
artistry still fell short of his vision, but in both he had
an unimpaired delight; these last months of the old
life at Cambridge were prosperous to the end. There
was indeed one perennial anxiet)' elsewhere, gradually
increasing; it was the condition of his sister, whose
mind had never fully recovered since the beginning
of her illness, seven years before. All this time she
had been living away from home, near London, seeing
very few people, but among those few always her
brothers, who visited her constantly. For a while it
was hoped that she might eventually be restored to
normal life; but there now came a change for the
worse in her state, and in the course of the next
months it grew evident that she had not long to live.
Arthur was to see her again, but very rarely, before
she died in 19 16. Her long illness was a sorrow
upon the life of Tremans that was borne by her
family, and first of all by her mother, with courage
unexampled and unfailing; but during all these years
the strain of it was never relaxed.

And in the autumn of 19 14, soon after the begin-
ning of the war, came the entirely unexpected blow of

265

1 9 14] THE DIARY OF

the death of his youngest brother, Father Hugh
Benson, at the height of his eager and crowded career.
Arthur, in the book that he soon afterwards devoted
to Hugh's memory, has described how he was sud-
denly summoned by the news of his brother's illness
to Manchester and how he was with him when he
died. They had been friends, even intimate friends —
outspoken, argumentative, disagreeing violently,
always enjoying each other's society. Except opinions
they had much in common; they were alike in their
quick humour, in their facility and curiosity, in their
power of attracting and attaching other lives while
remaining entirely disencumbered in their own. At
Tremans, at Cambridge while Hugh was working
there, and at Buntingford, within reach of Cambridge,
where he had lived latterly, they saw each other often,
and never without enlivenment to both. It was not
in either of them to cling greatly to the past or to
miss the absent deeply; but perhaps there was no
companion more interesting to the elder brother, none
with whom he was on easier, happier terms, than this
one whom he now lost.

" Magdalene^ January 1 1, 1 9 14. — I had a quiet morn-
ing, with no thought of church and only thankful there
was no chapel. At i.o Salter came, and Peel, and Mr.
Sylvester Home, the Congregationalist M.P. — he is a
rather handsome man, with a troubled and self-conscious
air, but very pleasant and talkative. . . . At 2.15 we
went into the court to see Salter go to the sermon as
Proctor; he appeared in cassock and tippet, with bull-
dogs behind, quite a stately little figure. As we went
back Home said to me, * I must thank you for your
many books — you are a kind of chaplain, you know, to
many of us I ' . . . He seems to have a great effect at
Ipswich over his radicals. I am ashamed to recollect
so little of his talk, but I can only remember what / said,
so I won't put it down. He struck me as civil and
tolerant in talk, though I fancy he is fierce enough in
principle. ..."

266

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1914

^* January 21 — . To town at 4.30. I went to
Whitefield's tabernacle: met a few unknown people in
a little ugly room: then was taken to a vast pulpit, where
I was left alone — 1400 people below and in great
galleries. I lectured, standing, for an hour on Lewis
Carroll. A timid reluctant audience, and I felt it was
all very flat. ... A little crowd, with an album or
two, to see me off, hats raised, polite bows; but it was
all a vague and dream-like affair. I was neither nervous
nor tired: back by midnight, and to bed. . . .

" Since then, oddly enough, I have had a letter from
the Lecture Agency, offering me engagements at [/lo
a night; the secretary says he hears my Whitefield's
lecture was a very great success, that it is the most
difficult of audiences and that a person who can hold
that can hold anything."

" January 29. — I had a tremendous tussle with letters
and cleared them off pro tem. Then men to lunch, and
biked by Hardwicke and Toft in fair content. Then
I wrote a little. Went to Caius, and read a paper on
' Essays ' to a large, shy, friendly, appreciative gathering.
There were a few questions and I answered with some
liveliness. But it isn't quite my line; I'm not myself
in a big gathering, and tend to an odious smartness.
I liked some of the young men; two of them walked
back half the way with me; and it was a pleasant
affair.

" Read two fine articles in the Quarterly. One by
Inge on St. Paul, a very fine brave candid study, full of
light — his change of thought and his adventurousness
well brought out. Also an excellent article on Samuel
Butler, by Desmond MacCarthy — full of good points
and interest, though making rather an outcry about his
greatness. He was a very ingenious man, with clear,
rather perverse ideas — a sharp and humorous critic, but
not, I think, a man of much atmosphere."

'■' January 30. — I went to dine with Clarence Buxton,
a charming youth, in the University VIII, full of

267

1 914] THE DIARY OF

good temper and kindness. His uncle O'Rorke, an
old colleger who was a boy in the school in '85, was
there — Jim Butler, Willink, Sedgwick, T. Buxton. . . .
I didn't frankly much enjoy it. I tried some elderly
sparkling, but I don't do that well; I am extremely self-
conscious and shy with younger people who are inclined
to listen deferentially and rejoice unto me with reverence.
They wanted me to shine and they laughed at my stories ;
but I felt on the wrong side of the river. They made
it as nice for me as they could, but it wouldn't do. The
rooms were in Neville's Court, fine panelled places:
C.B. a charming host, full of grace and courtesy and
entirely simple."

'^February i. — A most brilliant, provocative and
amusing sermon from Waggett, about reality in life, and
the coming democracy; it was full of good points and
all so easily and finely done — highly artistic. He said
in the course of it that he didn't suppose there would
be a revolution — only some unbending Tory Head of
a House might be hung from a lamp-post, (The
Master objected to this afterwards, and Waggett said
he was thinking of Shipley!) I'm not sure if such
sermons do good; Salter objected to it. It was over
the heads of all but the cleverest, and was felt perhaps
to be simply fantastic. But it was full of good
stuff. . . .

"Then lunch: out with Jones: a lovely spring day,
fresh winds and clean skies, the snowdrops out in
sheltered shrubberies at Shelford. We talked amiably
and gently. Then a scrap of writing. . . .

" Dear me, how I hate Sundays here: days with no
point, full of services — I went again to chapel, from which
I neither got nor hoped for benefit — and endless twaddle.
But I suppose there is something in it; at least one can't
work. A long and pleasant letter from Madan, which
made me happy."

" February 13. — I worked hard at letters all morning.
Then off to Oxford: read and dozed and enjoyed the

268

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [19 14

scene. I like the bit between Bedford and Blctchley,
with the low hills to the south. It came on to rain. I
drove straight to Balliol, and in a hideous court, climbing
high stairs, found Madan in ugly comfortable rooms.
His father turned up, ver>' full of talk, and we sate for
an hour. . . . Then I had a vision of beautiful houses,
old walls, lighted windows, high domes and porticos of
crumbling stone. It's an enchanted cit)' — one ought
to spend more time there. . . .

" Went to Grove Place, to a funny little shut-in house
of Livingstone's, a Fellow of Corpus, with a young self-
possessed wife — Sidney Ball, an old Wellingtonian —
Schiller, the philosopher, amusing and brisk, once at
Eton — and Pye, a nice Fellow of New. We dined
comfortably, with strange orange wine, in a little parlour.
I liked to hear Schiller and Ball talk a little philosophy;
it is pleasant to feel out of one's depth. Then to Corpus
— raining hard. The hall quite full of undergraduates,
with some ladies. I discerned Geoffrey Madan at a
table and caught his eye. Then I spouted an address
on education. It was well received; they listened like
mice, laughed, applauded me tremendously; a few
questions asked, to which I replied as best I could,
without any sense of nervousness. , . . Back to hotel
and soon to bed: slept fairlv, among manv far-off
bells."

" March 2. — My little book on religion grows. It
is both frank and shallow, but I have tried to say what
I believe in it. . . .

" I went up to the Church House. Our meeting
was amicable:* Bishop of Ely, Dean of Wells, Dean of
Norwich, Nairne, Mackail: Dean of Wells a little
passionate. . . .

" I lunched at the Athenaeum. . . . Came down at
7.55 to go with Basil Champneys to the Literar)' Society,
when I found the Archbishop in the newspaper room.
He held his hand out and said, ' My dear boy! ' in a way
which pleased me much. He had been intending to go

• Committee on the revision of the Psalter.
269

1 9 14] THE DIARY OF

to Grillion's, but he said he would come with us. A
big party. ... I sate by George Trevelyan and found
him quite delightful. But I had a very wholesome and
rather humiliating feeling of not being quite up to the
mark in that mundane assembly, which made me shy
and apologetic. . . . They know what is going on,
and I do not. I rushed off at 9.30, but missed my
train and didn't get in till midnight. Speechlessly bored
in the train, cold and alone, and the light too dim to
read by."

" Lygon Arms^ Broadway^ March 31. — The hunting
man came down to breakfast with a sort of table-cloth
apron, so as not to stain his cords: what cannot people
wear with dignity, if it's only the proper thing! The
party of women is galvanised into life and health by the
arrival of a stupid hearty man. . . . We lunched, and
it cleared up mto a softly-shining, hazy, sweet spring
day.

" There followed one of the most beautiful afternoons,
in every way, that I can remember. We raced across
the plain to the village of Grafton, on the skirt of Bredon.
A dear old silvery-haired, blue-eyed dame, in a cottage
garden full of wallflowers and daffodils, with a pear-tree
spread on the wall, in a steep narrow lane, gave us a
note of the way, and we were soon on the broad back
of Bredon, with dim and rich views every way. They
were hunting up there, and the red coats of the hunts-
men on the covert-edge were gay to see. We walked
on, over soft turf. G.M. was in high spirits and per-
fectly charming. I did my best to entertain him; and
I can only say that of all the young people I have ever
known — and the charm of youth increases to me as I
get older — he is the very sweetest, most frank, quickest,
most sympathetic I have ever known. He is so clever
that he understands instantly without any need of com-
ment or of explanation — and his mind seems to run in
the same channels as my own. I have never known
anything quite like this before; and though he is
emotional he isn't any more sentimental than I am.

270

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1914

I don't think I ever talked more openly and naturally
of what I believed and didn't believe. It was a really
marvellous experience, and I am as grateful for this day
as I am for any of the beautiful days of my life. I do
not think the impression will ever fade. We sate down
on the edge of the hill, above a nice bit of tumbled
forest-ground with thorn-thickets; then on to the top,
where we made a cache of coins in a limestone boulder,
like children. . . . We found the car, and watched
a glorious old man in a blue cloak, very old and feeble,
with a face like an apostle in an ancient window, big
features, large lips, sunning himself. Then back
by Elmley Castle: saw one miracle of colour, an old
brick dove-cote of the cruciform kind in a farmyard —
I never saw richer red, or a more orange-lichened
roof.

" Home, tea, work, dinner and cards. But I can't
reproduce the extraordinary happiness of the day, nor
how the talk seemed to flow out of the real reservoirs
of the mind. I am partly, I know, susceptible to the
beauty and grace of G.; but it's a fine, rather austere,
critical mind, not fluid or subservient, and at the
same time with great feeling and wide interests. I
can't attempt to recover it — but I felt that he was
happy and unafraid, and I don't think he felt it to be a
strain. ..."

''Magdalene^ Easter Sunday^ April 12. — I decided
to go to King's — sate in the ante-chapel. ... A few
imbecile, wild, officious people in the nave; one
woman eyed a small book in her hand hungrily and
intently, and sang wolfishly; a foolish elderly man
handed about books; a young man talked and gigg^led
to a young woman. The music was very characteristic —
hymns with tubas, like streams of strawberry jam, and
gliding intermediate chords, gross, like German cookery.
As for the service, there was no mystery about it, or
holiness — it was no more holy than a Union Jack — it
was loud and confident. But old Smart in F was charm-
ing enough, a strange mixture of levity and sweetness.

271

1 9 14] THE DIARY OF

Altogether it wouldn't quite do; it was very beautiful
both to see and hear, but had no wisdom or depth about
it. I had no impulse at all to pray or weep. And yet
one must not neglect the fact that people come together
for it, sit through it gravely, without smiling — even
believe in it! . . .

" I had two very feminine letters this morning, full

of sweetness, from and . I see that the way

to win women is to ask for their sympathy in calamities
which you do not explicitly specify. That evokes at
once their curiosity and their sympathy. Is that a
cynical remark.'' — I don't know — I think it is true.
Yet I don't undervalue sentiment!

" I felt this morning that though I am happy enough
my life is very unsatisfactory. I seem to be floating
about experiencing most comforts and prosperities, and
yet always on the surface of everything. Love, religion,
art, ambition- — I have an inkling of all, yet have never
dived to any depth or been carried away. I have never
been in love; I have abandoned myself to luxurious
sentiment, but never ' hungered sore ' ; I have never
really had a personal mystic apprehension of God, never
understood art, always at the last moment despised
ambition; and the other side of that medal is that I have
always been really preoccupied with myself. But how
is one to get out of such preoccupation.? If any one
will tell the human race that, he shall be made a saint.
The difficulty is to be on the whole contented, like
me — and yet to know that nothing has ever been
really and vitally experienced, and probably never can
be; and yet I can form a better idea of it by
observation and imagination than most people. I
suppose it is the artistic temperament without the
artistic vocation.

" I dined in Trinity at the Easter Feast, in Combina-
tion Room — a mixture of state and fussiness! ..."

''April I 8. — I went to look at the National Portrait
Gallery and fell in with Shane Leslie. ... I gave
him my impressions of Manning — that he was a

272

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1914

small man and unscrupulously set on personal power.
Mr. Gladstone always said that if Manning had been
made a Bishop at the right moment he would have
ended by being Archbishop of Canterbury, and we should
never have heard of Infallibility. ... I strolled round
the gallery and saw Millais' portrait of Manning, like
an animated skull. Newman very plebeian and feeble.
Many very interesting pictures; but what a wretched
painter Watts was — many of his portraits are daubs —
he came off about once in ten times. Millais' Carlyle
is tremendous — such a peasant^ just like an old
apple-cheeked farmer. . . . The worst of the gallery
is that the best pictures are of nonentities, like
Romney's Cumberland, and the great people are
often represented by amateur scrawls. The finest
creatures of all, like Shelley and Keats, are the most
dishonoured. . . .

" Back to the Athenaeum, and fell in with Henry
James, very portly and gracious — a real delight. I had
tea with him, and he talked very richly. . . . He
complimented me grotesquely and effusively as likely to
incur the jealousy of the gods for my success and efficiency.
He little knows! My books are derided, my activities
are small and fussy. I said this, and he smiled
benignantly.

'* I asked him if he was well. He said solemnly that
he lived (touching his heart) with a troublesome
companion, angina pectoris. * But you look well.' He
laughed — ' I look^ my dear Arthur, I admit I look — but
at that point I can accompany you no further. It's a
look, I allow.' And so we said good-bye; he shook my
hands often very affectionately. I have a feeling that
I shall not see him again. ..."

** Skelwithjold, June 29. — The Archduke Franz
Ferdinand and his wife killed at Serajevo. It would
be absurd to grieve over it. He was a curious,
dumb, reserved, uncomfortable sort of man, with plenty
of physical courage, but no attractiveness. They are
gone anyhow — and I wonder where and what they are.

s 273

1 9 14] THE DIARY OF

That is the thing which interests me, and not the Httle
ant-hill we leave behind.

" We started pretty early, and after a dip into Amble-
side for parcels we went along by Coniston and the
Broughton road. Lunched by a pretty farm; these old
thick-walled untidy places, with all their jolly litter and
little orchard-closes and stone-stepped granaries and
climbing roses, are quite delicious. Then C. and I set
off, by Woodland station, among little fields and knolls
and copses — very few houses. We found lots of
butterfly orchis and pyramidalis with its sweet smell in
a marshy patch — and then by a lonely road over fern-
covered hills swept by drifting cloud. . . . and finally
down to Lowick Bridge, where we found the car: a
very beautiful walk, full of character. So home by
Brantwood. . . .

" A mass of letters : poor writes to condole with

me on a savage attack, she calls it, on my writings, in
the Academy. I should never even have heard of it
but for her sympathy. But I'm off my vogue just
now, I think. I am supposed to be successful and
complacent — and I expect there is an irritating
quality about my writings of which I am unaware.
They say that I write for Suburbia, and that is
partly true. Well, I must maunder on as best I
can. ..."

*' Magdalene^ July 3. — Off to town— cheered, in the
midst of such contempt about my books, by a very warm
appreciation in the Bookman of Where No Fear Was,
I have settled, I think, not to go on with novels; it isn't

my line. writes me an insolent letter about The

Happy Threshold — says it will do me harm and bring in
no profit — so much thrown away. I have three whole
books on the shelf now, which will be wasted, I fear.
But I still pant after glory, and I have an idea that
I may still write a good book. My practice is
incessant, and I have a use of words; moreover I have
heaps of things bubbling in my brain to discourse
about. ..."

274

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1914

" 'July 6. — Lunched at the Athenaeum with R, J.
Smith* and had a talk about plans. . . . He was
very kind and gracious. I talked about money, and
happened to say that I wanted money — I was ^^3,000
overdrawn at the bank. He looked at me for a moment,
and then said, ' Ah, you must let me help you in that —
let me make you an advance.' This was truly kind —
but I explained how it all came about. He then drew
from his pocket a tiny notebook, with poetry written in
a most minute square hand, almost like printing, with
pencil titles scrawled in. The original titles were all
personal, like ' Robert to Helen.' This was the original
MS. of Emily Bronte's poems, and it gave me a great
thrill. I was interested to find in ' Remembrance ' that
the original reading in the last line but one was ' Once
drinking deep of that <^^//^/^/^^ anguish,' with ' delighted '
scored out and * divinest ' written in — ' divinest ' simply
makes the poem. The scrawled titles were Mr. Nicholls's.
R.J.S. asked me if I would edit and write a little preface
for a new edition of the poems. I should like to do
that. ..."

^' July II. — Rupert Brooke came to dine — very
handsome, but more mature since his travels. He has
been in America and the South Sea Islands; he lived
three months with a chief at Tahiti. We talked of
many other things. He told me he had offered to help
Quiller-Couch in English next term. ... It was
altogether an easy and friendly evening, and I was con-
scious of his liking me — he had invited himself. I don't
feel epris about him, but I think he is simple, clever and
charming."

" July 12. — P.L., after inviting himself here for a
Sunday, calmly says he can't come; he finds, I think,
more amusing guests at home. This is the aristocratic
handling 1 I sent him a post-card with a quotation from
Boswell — ' When the King had said it, it was to be

• Reginald John Smith, of Smith Elder & Co., a friend of A. C. B.'s from his
school days and the publisher of many of his books.

19 h] ARTHUR CHRISTOPFIER BENSON

so. It was not for me to bandy civilities with my
Sovereign.' . . .

" A little letter from Howard Sturgis, vexed at my
throwing him over — I was to have lectured at Eton, but
I am let off — and saying he can't come here. There is
certainly something rather irritating about mel It is,
I believe, that I don't really care about people deeply—
and that comes from my finding visits and occasions a
great strain. I don't know why they are a strain; but
I anticipate them with anxiety, and I am tired by them.
It is that I can't be serene; I play up all the time. I can't
use a friend's house like an hotel somehow; I feel respon-
sible for things going well. This does perhaps help
things to go well, but it makes it hard work for me.
Unfamiliar rooms, new ways, unknown servants — all
these weigh on my mind. But it is an unamiable
quality — and I pay for it."

276

XIII

I9I5— I9I7

The war found Arthur Benson no more prepared for
it, intellectually, emotionally, than it found many
another, and indeed in some ways he was less capable
than most of discovering how to think or feel in the
presence of the catastrophe. The world outside his
own had meant little to him until now; beyond the
circle of his work, his habits, his kind, he had seldom
looked, and when it was suddenly broken into by the
world without his bewilderment was complete. He
was not alone, it is easy to remember, in his sense of
being left utterly at a loss in the first strangeness of
those times, while the whole face of the life that he
had known was changed — and life was nowhere more
swiftly changed than at Cambridge, in a place founded
upon the concourse of youth and now bereft of its
youth at a stroke, from one day to another. And yet,
though to one so fixed in his familiar ways the stroke
might seem cataclysmic, nevertheless it was a man
like Arthur Benson who could in a manner most
readily adjust himself, perhaps, to the new terms upon
which life was now to be lived. He had for so long
fitted his days and years to a precise pattern that in
their outer figuration they soon fell again into its
lines. There was plenty to be done within it, even
now; Cambridge was to be kept alive until its youth
returned to it, and to this, the evident task of a man
in his position, of his age, he gladly addressed himself.
It was a practical work, and it occupied him to the

277

191 5] THE DIARY OF

full. As to thinking and feeling in such times, that
was another matter, and to him — as again to many
another- — a far more difficult. He never mastered it,
and before long he was content to drop the problem;
the war, it always seemed, left no mark on him at all.
He worked away as usual, writing, lecturing, attend-
ing to the business of his many committees and
syndicates; and though Magdalene, like other colleges,
was now practically empty of undergraduates, it
was presently to be repopulated by successive
batches of officer cadets, quartered at Cambridge
for courses of instruction, and he gave and got
much pleasure in welcoming and entertaining them
as they passed.

Two events befell him in 191 5, both of them
closely affecting his life, and the first of them a sur-
prise so remarkable and so felicitous that I am glad
to believe the story may be told without indiscretion.
For some time past he had been in constant corres-
pondence with an American lady, personally unknown
to him — a reader of his books, living abroad — with
whom a friendship had grown and prospered, always
by letter, until there were few of his friends on the
spot who entered more fully into the interests and
occupations of his life. This lady now put to him
a request; it was that he should accept from her the
gift of a considerable fortune — it was no less — to be
used by him in any manner and for any purpose that
he preferred. An offer so generously conceived
might have been impossible to accept; and at first,
deeply as he was touched by such a signal of goodwill,
he felt that he could only refuse it. He did refuse
it; but it was repeated, and again repeated, not with
generosity only, but with such considerate grace that
at length the gift passed from the one to the other as
simply as a birthday present between old friends. It
had a double result. It meant that from now onward
he could indulge his liberality to his heart's content,
enlarging his schemes for the benefit of his college
while he lived, providing for their maintenance after

278

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 5

his death. And also it meant that his unseen friend,
during his later years, held a place in the intimacy of
his daily life which no one else approached; for no
one else was so uninterruptedly his companion in
everything that he thought and did and planned to
do. They never met at all; but the perceptive
sympathy of this lady, joined with that of her family,
appears henceforward as a recurring note in the diary
to the very end.

The other change in his state, this year, came with
the greatly-mourned death of Stuart Donaldson,
Master of Magdalene since 1904 — who on October
24 was seized with sudden illness while he was
ministering in the college chapel and died within a
few days. There never was a man of more genial
charm and more transparent goodness than Donaldson,
and he left for his monument the enhanced name and
fame of Magdalene, which in so large a measure was
due to his devotion and enthusiasm. There could be
little doubt in any mind as to his successor; and before
long Lord Braybrooke, in whose hands the appoint-
ment lies, had offered the mastership to Arthur
Benson. In the war-time depletion of the university
the change made no great difference in his duties; but
it pleased him to feel that he was welcomed to the
dignity by the whole college, and congratulated by
all his friends.

Two volumes of collected essays. Where No Fear
Was and Escape; the tale, or imaginary portrait, called
Father Payne \ the sketch of his brother Hugh,
and the Life and Letters of his sister Margaret:
these were his chief publications during the first three
years of the war. He also put forth, under stricter
anonymity than usual, a little volume of reflections
in war-time. Meanwhile. This last was one of several
small books, of different dates, which escaped notice
and were never generally identified as his work.
There were many of his more popular books that he
attempted to disguise in the same way, though with-
out success, and it may be wondered why he cared

279

19 1 5] THE DIARY OF

as he did to court concealment of his name. Perhaps
he hardly himself knew why; but it came back, no
doubt, to that odd discrepancy between the man whom
his friends knew and the author whom his public
knew, and to some distaste for an inconvenient mixing
of the parts. Friends who did not read his books,
a public that knew nothing of him personally — such
was his choice; and though in both respects his choice
was denied him, he continued hopefully to bury his
head in anonymous publication. But it was only
when his books, as in this case of Meanwhile^ attracted
no attention at all that the blank title-page was any
shield to his identity.

^^ Magdalene, February 5, 19 15. — A free day: many
letters and much controversy. . , , More and more I feel
that my mistake has been to philosophise about the war.
I don't see widely enough or know enough. My only
chance is to go on at my own business. The war is a
cosmic affair, and I am an individualist. The papers
delude one into thinking that one takes a cosmic view.
The only help is to work away at one's own limited range.
To try to take a wide view merely means that one be-
comes diluted and weltering. It is as if a man gave up
shoemaking to reflect about the war. Let him make
the best shoes he can! ..."

''April 21. — Off early. ... I read The Joyful
Wisdom (Nietzsche), but felt neither joyful nor wise.
London was very beautiful, so full of light and colour.
Wrote letters at the Athenaeum. . . .

" I lunched with Heniy James, who kept on being
entangled by voluble persons. . . . H.J. was very
tremendous; he looks ill, he changes colour, he is dark
under the eyes — but he was in a cheerful and pontifical
mood. He ate a plentiful meal of veal and pudding,
but he spoke to me very gravely of his physical condition
and his chronic angina. . . . We went down together,
and he made me a most affectionate farewell. He is
slower and more soigneux in utterance than ever,

280

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1915

but leaves a deep impression of majesty, beauty and
greatness. He said that his life was now one flurried
escape from sociability, but he valued a glimpse of
me.*

" I had a little talk to Hardy, who was in town and
spoke affectionately of Magdalene. . . . So I was well
entertained.

'* An hour of business with Welsford, who gave me
tea. Walked to Liverpool Street; the city was very
sunny and delightful, looking in the absence of all dirt
and smoke more like a little country town. So to
Cambridge. . . .

" A great pile of letters. I come back rather tired
by my holiday. I meant not to write, and I have written
copiously. I dislike taking up this stupid and meaning-
less business over again. I want quiet and freedom and
relief from feeling the pressure of ugly spiteful hostile
elements in the world. One can't escape them, I suppose,
except by a sort of drowsy serenity — but that, for
me, contains other dangers. I don't see my way clearly
at present. . . . And yet I feel a certain potentiality
inside me, as though I had things which I could say and
do, if I knew how! ..."

" Skelwiihjold, June 29. — I have enjoyed my time
ver)^ much; but I have had enough, I think. I
want to get back to work. . . . Writing is my busi-
ness, not administration or teaching. I don't do it very
well, but it's the one thing in life for which it seems
worth while making arrangements and even making
sacrifices. It's the congenial thing. I tend more and
more to group my life round it; and all the other things
are simply diversions or distractions or contrasts or
reliefs. This applies to all my college work and
administrative work. The truth is that writing is
a passion^ and it is worth while sacrificing everything
else to it. It's a hard mistress in some ways, and it
gets me into rows; but it is more and more clear to
rne that it is my real life, through which I see

* This was their last meeting. Henry James died in February, 191 6.

19 1 5] THE DIARY OF

and view everything else — even friendship, even
death.

" I had a talk with A. who regretted I hadn't gone
to Eton — thought I organised and commanded easily —
evidently thinking that to give up such faculties for
writing was a mistake, almost a sin. It shows, of course,
how little is thought of my writing — but I don't value
any such success at a pin's point beside my writing. I
live first to shape thought into word. The thought
may be weak and the word garish, but like Pitman in
The Wrong Box I am an enthusiast, I am aiming
higher. ..."

" October 4. — In the afternoon I mooned out against
a high wind to Bottisham and Swaffham Bulbeck —
it is a pretty region. Wrote a little more at Mean-
while — but it is finished; Murray is to publish it secretly.
But I haven't a subject and I want one badly; I am rather
stale — full of vague ideas, but I want a definite one.
Dined alone off a cold duck, and read Martindale's*
chapters, which are very good. It shows Hugh in all
sorts of vivid lights, mostly by quotations from letters.
His intensity comes out, his extraordinary lack of insight
about people, his power of extrication. Hugh's hard-
ness was a strange thing. . . . He was an artist of a
fiery amateur kind; he wanted to express himself in a
dozen media. But it was the expression he liked. . . .
His prayers, offices, meditations were, I believe, all part
of the game. I don't mean he did not make moral
choices — indeed 1 think he was feeling his way to a fine
and simple way of life, something much finer than the
Catholic way. . . . He loved Catholic controversy;
but his religion was one of artistic values, I believe."

" December 9. — At ten o'clock I went to chapel with
Gaselee and we took down the mourning — purple
cloth on the Fellows' stalls, with cords, and curtains in
the Master's stall. Arranged the ceremony and talked
over the business of the College Meeting. . . .

* Life of Monsignor Robert Hugh Benson, by C. C. Martindale, S.J.
282

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 5

"At 2.10 we put on our gowns and went to the
librar)'. All the Fellows were there, Salter in khaki.
, . . At 2.15 Jacob shouldered the mace, and we walked
in, two and two, Braybrooke and myself last. I showed
B. to the stall on the Master's right, and then took the
President's stall. Peskett then read the Deed, from the
stall on my left; a menacing document, requiring and
enjoining the Fellows to receive me. Then, in a tone
of resignation, he read the sentence I had written, " We,
the Fellows of Magdalene, receive and accept you,
A.C.B., to be and become Master of this College."
Then, still using my form of words, he required me
to promise to obey the Statutes. I repeated the
form of words and promised obedience. Then I
stepped out into the gangway; and Peskett, following
me, took my hand and placed me in the Master's
stall. . . .

" It was like a strange and pleasant little dream, so
short, simple, and orderly. . . . Then I saw Braybrooke
off, and then Mont)' — I was glad he was there. I
thought of our old walks at Eton together and our old
hauntings of chapel and St. George's; it seemed strange
that he and I, as Provost of King's and Master of Magda-
lene, should thus have a charming little fulfilment of
old dreams. But now it seems like a beginning rather
than a fulfilment.

" Then the College Meeting began. ... It was
all very peaceful and harmonious, ever^'one in the friend-
liest of moods. I think we all felt a great relief that we
were not having to welcome a stranger to rule us. We
had tea, then sealed a document, and I signed the book
as Master. Then back to my study, and wrote letters.
At 7.45 to hall; only a few undergraduates: but the
servants had set out all the plate and I had provided
champagne. All the Fellows and the chaplain present;
we had a most friendly meal. I sate between Peskett
and Ramsey at the end of the table, and read grace
(wrongly). Then we sate upstairs and talked, and at
9.15 broke up. A very happy and peaceful day for me,
full of goodwill and kindness. ..."

283

19 15] THE DIARY OF

** December lo. — Had very strange dreams. It was
a great open-air party, in the dusk, at Wellington
College, in the Lodge Garden. Geoffrey Madan was
there, in uniform, very slim and graceful and much feted
by everyone. He gave me a little smile, and I felt,
* What a comfort that we know each other and that I
need not pay court to him.* Then followed a play, and I
was asked to take part. I hummed and hawed, but G.M.
came up behind me, leaned on my arm a moment and
said, ' I hope you will — just to please me.' So I con-
sented, and had a scene where I was an elderly enchanter,
like Prospero, with a young and beautiful girl, like
Miranda. This dialogue was a part of it:

P. Wilt hear a secret?
M. Ay, I love secrets.
P. I will tell thee on a May morning. It is a

charm! Wilt hear a tale,'*
M. A merry tale?
P. Nay, there are no merry tales.
M. A sad one, then?
P. Nor sad neither. Merry and sad are for

gods, not men.
M. What tales else are there?
P. Real tales, girl !
M. What is it to be real?
P. To be empty! Things have no bottom in

them. We fall through them into the void.

' I woke at this moment, and the dialogue was so firm
in my mind that I scribbled it down. ..."

" Tremans^ January 3, 19 16. — I wrote a bit, and then
drove in the victoria, very slowly, to the Bryces.* There
were gleams of sun: artillery practising on Ashdown and
an awful mess made of the heather. The views from
Hindleap are enchanting — the soft purple of the leafless
woods, the ridges to the south, with interspaces of soft
shade and flying smoke, most lovely. The house is a

* Viscount Bryce, O.M., died in 1922.
284

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1916

funny high-minded little place, like a professor's house
in Grange Road. A very donnish drawing-room, prim
and useless, with china and sea-shells in white compart-
ments. . . . Br}'ce is enchanting, so old and crumbling
and hairy, but so simple and sweet-tempered and kind.
. . . He walked briskly off with me, in thick shapeless
grey clothes and a funny black hat. There was a fine
sunset coming. We went through his pines; the garden
careful, but lacking in charm. He walked very quickly,
down to T\syford. . . . Then he said he must get
back, said how much he had enjoyed seeing me, asked me
to propose myself at any time, his old battered face all
alive with kindness and sweetness. He is a dear old boy
and evokes my very real admiration and affection. That
is what I would become — simple, modest, kindly, full
of gentleness. ..."

Something has been said on an earlier page of the
mixture of feeling which for more than ten years had
kept him away from Eton. If there had once been a
trifle of bitterness in that feeling it had long since evap-
orated, but he had formed the habit of refusing to see the
place again, and only an urgent call could have made
him break it. The call came in this year. His old
friend Cornish, Vice-Provost of Eton since 1893, ^^"^
ill and infirm and not far from his end, wished to see
him, and he went to Eton accordingly for the day's visit
described in the following extract. The habit, thus
broken, was fortunately not resumed; he was seen at
Eton again before long, staying with Ainger, and in
later years yet again.

** April 3, 19 1 6. — A memorable day. It was a fine
spring morning, but I was much depressed at what was
before me. . . . To Paddington by i i.i 5; the landscape
more and more familiar. Then we were at Slough, and
then gliding over the viaduct and looking all the familiar
buildings in the face. The Castle very grand, but a
house opposite the Curfew Tower gone, like a gap in
teeth. I got out feeling rather dizzy with emotion,

285

19 1 6] THE DIARY OF

but like a revenant. Drove down in soft sunshine along
the old street; the first sight of the boys in their ridiculous
dress — yet looking so handsome and fine, many of them
— moved me a good deal.

" I certainly couldn't have had a sweeter day to
revisit the old affair: twenty-seven years of my life —
i.e. exactly half, so far — spent there. I had some
happiness there as a boy, but no experience, and as a
master some experience and not much happiness. But
it isn't my native air at all. It represents an aristocratic
life, a life pursuing knightly virtues — chivalry, agility,
honour, something Spartan. I am not like that at all;
I like the poetical, epicurean, tranquil, semi-monastic
life. I haven't the clean fresh sinfulness of the knight;
I am half bourgeois, half monk. I was never big enough
to embrace and overlap Eton. This could be done by
a large-hearted and fatherly man, because it has the
petulant and inconsiderate faults of youth ; and such an
one could have extended to it a fatherly and amused
tolerance. But I was always a little afraid of it and its
mockery, without ever respecting its ideals. I was
glad to get away. Now that I go back after a gap, I
see its pretty paces and ornaments — it bounds along
like a greyhound — it has no virtues, only some
instincts.

" I looked in at Luxmoore's house. . . . Then
through Brewer's Yard, up the shallow staircase of the
kitchen, by hall — the old sights, the old light sudden
warmths and coolnesses, the old smell of what? — bread
and beer, I imagine.

** Then into the Vice-Provost's. I was shown to the
drawing-room. There to my surprise was dear Cornish
— I had thought of him as bedridden, but he was dressed
and much as usual, sitting in a chair, with his thin legs
so oddly hinged. He didn't even look ill. . . . He
shook hands and talked easily and discursively — his
voice rather low, and with a thickness of intonation which
made him not easy to hear always — with allusions and
quotations and flights, all in the old way. Mrs. Cornish,
with mysterious velvet streamers tied beneath her chin

286

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [19 16

(attached to what? — I can't think), had a witch-like air,
but very benevolent and amiable and full of plans and
consideratenesses. Presently men came and took
Cornish out of his armchair and put him in a carrying-
chair. . . . He said to me with a smile, * It is so
strange to be carried about in a tray! * I said, * Okes
never minded it.' ' No,' he said, * it was so much more
normal for old people then.' We saw him put in a
bath-chair, drawn by a little boy. I walked beside him,
and we went out of cloisters into the playing-fields. . . .
Margaret would have left him, but he called out loudly
that she must return. * Three is the best number —
I have always preferred three — it allows one to be
dummy! ' . . . Saw the lean determined figure of
Ainger moving far ahead. Lots of new buildings at
every turn — and always the same charming drift of
boys, like fine bloodstock, saluting Cornish respectfully
and looking at him curiously, not sympathetically at
all. I remember seeing old Dupuis drawn about,
and how I looked at him, hardly dreaming that he
didn't prefer it, or that he had ever been or felt young
like me.

" We came in to lunch; Ainger joined us. We found
Walter Durnford looking over papers in the library; and
indeed, all the time there were so many confused talks
and interviews with so many people that I can keep
little account of them.

'* We had lunch — oysters, cutlets, macaroni — excel-
lent. Poor Cornish sate by the fire apart, bungling over
his own affairs, hardly heard. We at the table talked
away. Then I had a few words with Mrs. Cornish,
who so hoped Hugh Macnaghten might be Vice-
Provost. . . .

" Mrs. Cornish spoke very curiously about Cornish.
She said, a little sharply, that he thought so much about
ultimate problems — death, immortality. * A man ought
surely to have found a solution by his age,' said Mrs.
Cornish, with that acrid ring in the voice one knows.
Then she went on, * He has always aimed too much at
tranquillit)' — his books are always about tranquillity-.'

287

19 16] THE DIARY OF

* Yes,' I said, * but with decided tenacity and even com-
batancy in his own handling of Hfe.' She looked at me
penetratingly and said, ' Yes, that is true — Frank has
that.* She shifted her ground a little. ' He wants to
spare himself suffering — he doesn't believe in suffering —
he says it has a bad effect on him.' Then she added,

* He doesn't understand its mystical effect, its effect on
life, its outward flow, even when it is silent, unseen,
unsuspected. What do you think.'' ' (with sudden
ferocity). She went on to say that he had been frightened
by doctors, did not read because of sensations in
his head, liked being read to — Walter Scott and
Dickens (very scornfully) — ' We don't keep up, you
see! ' . . . She spoke bravely and even interestedly
about all. . . .

" In the playing-fields we saw, on Poet's Walk, a
white-haired woodman, wielding an axe over the
prostrate trees. ' Who is that fine-looking old man? '
said Mrs. Cornish. A group of boys were watching
him curiously and derisively. It was Edward
Lyttelton! ...

" Well, Eton seemed to me like a curious dream —
rather heavenly — light, warmth, beauty, kindness — but
not real at all: a good deal of sadness, too, the old trees
fallen and the old men falling, though Luxmoore and
Ainger seemed hearty and strong. But the sight of
Cornish, in a tiny dark study, no book or pipe, alone,
by a dying fire, seemed to me full of disgrace — an enemy
hath done this, I felt."

''Magdalene^ May I2. — I had beautiful dreams of
Maggie, smiling and gracious, and full of little ironies
and fine sharp touches. . . .

" Up to town: met W. P. Ker, the great professor,
at the Athenaeum, who asked me to lunch with him.
He is a curious little fellow, red in nose and cheek, with
a strange network of minute congested veins: a twinkling
eye and a much-controlled thin mouth, infinitely dry.
We tried to secure a double table, but all were full.

* We must be sorry to find every one so greedy,' said Ker,

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1916

A mild man, the colour of freshly-made milk-cheese,
came up, just as we had found a table covered with
debris — 'evidence of a deceased lobster!* said Ker
mournfully. . . . Ker and I discovered we were each
lecturing at 5.30. ' It's hard that we should be the
only two people in London who may not hear each
other,* he said. He ate and drank freely — ' a large
glass of golden sherry.' He told a story of a young
Irish priest, chaplain to an Archbishop, who lunched
with a politician and Father Healy. The chaplain
talked very intelligently about the Irish problem. The
politician said, ' Do you tell all this to the Archbishop.'' *
' Not I,' said the chaplain. * Why not.'' — what would
he say.'' ' * He would probably say, " Go to Helll " '
The politician, rather shocked, said to Healy, * You
know the Archbishop — is he the sort of man to say
that.'' ' ' No,' said Healy, * not at all. I have known
him thirt)' years, and drunk or sober I never heard him
say such a thing !'

" We promised to meet again at the Athenaeum. Ker
is a dry vintage, but undeniably refreshing, though I
fear his acumen. . . .

" Then I went off with Huxley for a word. The
statue of Florence Nightingale has been enclosed
in a structure of laurel, and a flat cake of yellow
flowers put behind her head — meant for a halo,
but looking like an odd umbrageous hat. The
attempts of the English to honour people are very
infantile. . . .

" To the Royal Institution — much crowded. Found
Sir James Dewar, who was pleased at the full audience.
Hung about disconsolately. Phil Burne-Jones arrived,
very pleasant and amusing. ... A tiresome military
man came up, who asked questions, didn't listen to
answers, and went on saying ' yers, yers,' long after one
had finished. . . . Then I was led in. Quite full —
and I discoursed for an hour on Vulgarity to a very
attentive audience. . , .

" Dewar carried me off to see his great soap-bubbles
blown in glasses in a great vague laborator}'. I was

T 289

19 16] THE DIARY OF

much bored by long explanations of these toys. The
scientific mind seems to me curiously childish; it was
like a child explaining its games. I am not interested
in scientific processes, only in results. . . . Caught
the 9.45, and back late."

" Tremans, Septe?nber 15.— We went ofF to lunch with
Lord Bryce : found him in an incredible old suit of grey
clothes with a large pattern. He was most delightful
and full of talk. . . . Geoffrey related some of his
Mesopotamia experiences. Lord Bryce got up, stood
in front of him, heard him open-mouthed like a child —
a fine contrast, the old worn gentle ill-dressed hair-
tufted man and the slim young soldier. We sate in the
library. It is a comfort to feel Lord Bryce to be neither
ambassador nor statesman, but an honest don like
myself. He walked with us through the garden and
down into the forest, to set us on our way: parted
most affectionately. . . ."

''February 19,19 17. — Went to Trinity Lodge to decide
the Chancellor's English Medal. The Master received
us, in gown and cassock: such a really beautiful
sight, his gracious smile, his fatherly look at me, his
white hair. He looked well and serene, but he was
much troubled by breathlessness. * I puff and blow in
so singular a manner! ' he said. The butler gave him
coffee, pouring it into a saucer. We sate down, the
Vice-Chancellor in a very odd old armchair, which
turned out to be Porson's own chair : Henry Jackson on
his left, deaf, red-fiiced, rugged, voice very shrill. . . .
The great portraits round the room glimmered richly —
Thompson, Wordsworth, Whewell — and I seemed to
see gods ascending out of the earth. The Master (who
was not on our Board) sate apart at a table and waited.
He closed his eyes, he seemed to be slowly consuming
some species of lozenge; his face was brightly lit up, and
I thought I had never seen so lovely a picture of patient
age and dignified courtesy. Sometimes he shook his
head or smiled to himself, and sometimes his lips moved

290

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1917

and I thought he was praying. It was entirely beautiful;
and I do not know why, but it came strongly into my
head that I should never see him again; he was at the
end of his course, and living in happy memory and
certain hope."

" June 13. — Up to town for Holt Governors' meeting:
fierce heat: train held up at the edge of London in the
marshes, by the river Lea, and a man came along and
told us that Liverpool Street station had just been bombed.
We crawled in very late. The station roof much dam-
aged : an immense crowd, pale, silent, not in any panic,
but interested. The bombed platform was guarded,
and ambulances went in and out. I saw a shrouded
figure carried out: the officials grave and absorbed. I
was unpleasantly aware of a strong current of imagination
and feeling about, which affected my mind unpleasantly:
I mean that I felt deprived of my independence, and
strangely merged in a tide of emotion. I have never
felt it before; but I was conscious that if an impulse had
seized the crowd it would have seized me too, and I
should have rushed with it and acted with it. . . .
I was taken in tow by a very friendly official, who tried
to get me a taxi and extracted a tipsy driver from a pub,
who said, * No, I can't take you — it's too dangerous,
and I feel out of my mind. I live near Liverpool Street
station and I don't know what may have happened; I
must get back home.' But he returned to [the pub.
My official was vexed and said, * That's not how to be-
have— it isn't a time to drink.* ... It was awfully
hot: crowds in streets, much broken glass everywhere:
many streets guarded by police and special constables —
in one place a group round a fallen man. The crowds
were great — not eager or excited, but determined to
see. A balloon went over, and it was strange how the
street suddenly seemed to whiten^ all faces being turned
to the sky. . . . The whole affair was very strange,
and the sense of obsession — not coming from any idea of
danger,'^though[the raiders[might have returned, butTrom
the tense emotions of the^crowd — was a strain. ..."

291

1917] THE DIARY OF

*' June 23. — Ainger gently said that I must come
again because he was becoming a very old man — ^yet
he wears the best of all. I feel very tired; I seem to
have had a wild sort of waltz or cotillon through
Eton; but it's a happy place — it seems to me happier
than I remember it. . . . I feel as if I had been
much welcomed and much blest — and that's surely
enough. . . .

" Then to Nicholson. He painted a little* and took
me to lunch at the Savile. . . . Then to an exhibition
in Bond Street and saw Nicholson's [portrait of] Smuts,
together with many other pictures — odd and pleasant,
ugly and strange, bright and dull. A very odd
one by Sims — three girls in white supporting an
evidently intoxicated elderly lady in black; they are
in a meadow laid with green linoleum; from a
bush hard by projects a stiff human image, as if
carved in camphor — and the whole is called ' Remem-
brance ' . . .

" The fashion now is for bright pictures. I
begged Nicholson to explain things to me, but
he laughed mockingly. ' What are we to do with
these. f^ ' I said, in a room of pictures with colours
like strong stenches. 'Well, not look at them! ' says
Nicholson. . . .

" We went back, and Nicholson painted. He said
many interesting things about the problems of real
painters: the reduction of accessories to a minimum —
the constant simplification of all redundance — the con-
centration on the real subject — the choice of subject: a
picture isn't a real thing — it's an illusion, a grouped
thing — it's as definite a thing as a violet or a rose. . . .
These things are not intelligible to me, but I have
the agreeable sense of being in the presence of a
mystery. ..."

And now came the first warning of a blow which
he had clearly foreseen as a possibility — a renewed

* This portrait was not finished. In 1924 Mr. W. Nicholson painted the portrait
of A. C. B., now in the Fitzwilliam Museum (see Diary, May 21, 1924).

259,

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [19 17

attack of the neurasthenia from which he had been
entirely free for seven years and more. He tried to
hope that the cloud of depression would pass, but it
was soon clear that the trouble was serious; it was, in
fact, the beginning of an illness that was to prove far
more acute, more baffling and more obstinate than
the last.

'* Tremans, Ju/y 2. — A most disagreeable experience.
I awoke before five o'clock, after dreams of incredible
vividness, variety and rapidity, in much agitation and
depression. An attack, sudden and unexpected, of my
old friend, I fear. However, I went off to sleep again;
but the same hideous pressure of visions, not in them-
selves painful or agitating, but succeeding each other
with such feverish rapidity and all so entirely pointless.
Thus I made my way, it seemed, for hours, against an
immense but quite good-natured crowd of boy-scouts
and undergraduates in a street of a town, just slipping
along as I could, the crowd streaming past. An infinite
series of similar quite meaningless adventures, as though
the imaginative part of the brain had lost its escapement
and were whizzing away like a watch without a regulator.
I woke again about 8.0 with that unpleasant sense of
nausea in the mind, which was so characteristic of my
melancholy illness. I got a little better and was just
nervous and depressed — able to read with attention and
even with interest, but with darkness hovering on the
outskirt of the mind. . . .

*' I have had no warning of this, except that I have
been a little dull and sad. . . . What I have done is
to overwork a good deal of late, and I must try to lie
fallow a bit, with mild employment. I'm unfortunately
very bad at resting. ..."

" M^gdalene^ July 8 — We walked to Girton, rain
dripping; and then I returned, played organ, had
tea — with a storm brewing inside. However, when I
sate down with a life of Charles Kingsley at 4.45 I only
had three quarters of an hour of misery, and not of the

293

191 7] THE DIARY OF

worst kind; and it cleared off, leaving me capable of
thinking and writing. It is a very physical thing; one's
mouth gets dry, and the wheels of thought fly round;
an awful hurry seizes on one. One turns pages, can't
read, and then the agonised stupor comes on — a real
neuralgia, no doubt, only so much more mysterious
because no active pain. No wonder it seems like an
evil spirit — but an evil spirit would not pay a regular
call after tea every day! I have really had a very fair
day. Of course I may be going slowly down into
darkness — the leisureliness of the process is fearful —
but I don't jeel like that. . . . .- j

** As I sit the cool air from the window and the
twittering of birds is mildly pleasant. But I mustn't
boast; though I should indeed sing unto the Lord a new
song, as well as mend my ways, if I found myself able
to keep my head above water as well as I have on the
whole to-day. I certainly don't look unwell.

" The variations of this vile malady are amazing. I
dined alone, talked with Hunting, then read the life of
Jowett with much peaceful enjoyment. To bed. Woke
at 2.0 after vivid dreams, and could not sleep: the brain
preternaturally active. I made up tunes, poetry, prose,
the thoughts diving and darting about, really hardly
under control: very painful in a way, but I wasn't at all
depressed. But as I got sleepier, at each dip into sleep
a thousand curious images darted into my mind: one
only I will describe — a large green bottle, hanging in
space by a series of linked chains — no meaning what-
ever. There was no terror or agitation about these.
Suddenly without any warning an awful access of horror
and despair, so that I wondered if my end was
come. I got up, lit the lights, and almost instantly felt
that I was all right again — as if something had
repelled the invasion and, so to speak, sealed the
sepulchre. ..."

''August 1 8. — What it means to sit here, the soft
wind rustling, butterflies poising on the buddleia, apples
dangling, the garden I love beyond, the life I love

294

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1917

all about, and have this horror over me, can't be even
faintly guessed. Yet a man may live so for years,
and I seem built for long life. It separates one from
ever}'thing and everybody. Affection fades before it;
its only life is to say, ' I should love this and do that,
it the pain were away.' "

295

XIV

1918-1925

More than five years were to be endured before happi-
ness returned to him — five years that shall here be
rapidly passed over. This visitation of his illness was
of the same character as the last; but he was now an
older man, he had used his health and strength more
recklessly than ever in his incessant labours, and the
despair into which he was plunged was proportion-
ately deeper. Shortly after writing the words last
quoted he left Cambridge, on the advice of Dr. Ross
Todd, for a nursing-home near Ascot, where he
remained for the greater part of the next two years;
and it was not until the spring of 1920 that he could
be persuaded to face the return to Magdalene. Even
then, though he was physically well and strong, his
agitation of mind was still so great that he could only
bring himself by very slow degrees to resume a por-
tion of his work. Little by little he made his way
back toward normal life, perpetually urged and
encouraged by his doctors and his friends. Every
step was taken with grievous effort; and after each
had been accomplished he was able to acknowledge
that it was a step forward, but the next that lay ahead
seemed never any easier, and he was always convinced
that utter disaster was not far off. During most of
this time the diary was laid aside; there was nothing
to be said of the passage of the days save that all alike
were misery. No one about him, watching his perse-
verance, could doubt that his mind and will would at

296

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [191 8

last bring him through to recovery; but the years
were very long, disappointments were many, and
almost to the end the darkness of his distress seemed
unrelieved. Then, as before, like the rolling up of
a curtain, it suddenly and completely disappeared; all
his old ease of work and enjoyment came back to him
with a rush, and he was himself again. This was at
the beginning of 1923.

Meanwhile, in the early days of his illness, he had
suffered the greatest loss of his lifetime. His mother
had died in 19 18, at Tremans, bequeathing to the
multitude of her friends a memory uniquely treasured.
Whoever knew Mrs. Benson has known goodness
that was all gaiet)', wisdom that was all charity, brilli-
ance that was all large-hearted humanity; her virtues
had the lightness and brightness of charming talents,
her talents had the grace of virtues. Her last years
had brought her many sorrows and anxieties, but her
spirit to the end was quick with youth, and her friends
mourned for her and missed her, not as one dying in
the fulness of age, but as one whom old age could
never touch. Of her six children only two survived
her — with a third. Miss Tucy Tait, who since the
old Lambeth days had lived with her and been as
daughter and sister in the family. And so they now
said good-bye to Tremans; and to Arthur, in the
worst of his unhappiness, the loss of his mother and
his home might well seem to cut him off from the last
hope of recovery. When he returned to Magdalene
and began to take some part in the life there and to
see his friends, the gap was even more to be felt;
without Tremans, and all that Tremans had meant,
the course of the year was difficult indeed. The
house of his cousins at Ambleside was still the resource
it had been for so long; but he needed some place of
his own away from Cambridge, and with his brother's
help he most fortunately found it. Mr. E. F. Benson
had a tenancy (for part of each year) of Lamb House,
at Rye — Henry James's home for the last twenty
years of his life, and still in the possession of his

297

1918-23] THE DIARY OF

nephew. An arrangement was made by which
Arthur, sharing his brother's tenancy, had the use of
the house for the vacations; and this solved his diffi-
culty so well that the familiar country inns, Burford
and Broadway and the rest, knew him no more. His
busy holidays — very busy they at once became again,
as soon as he was well — were passed henceforward at
Lamb House, where a succession of friends were
invited to stay with him, one by one, till it was time
to go back to Cambridge for the scarcely busier
term.

In the supreme relief of discovering that he could
once more enjoy the world he made light of the
physical disabilities by which, for the first time in his
life, he was now considerably hampered. Gout at-
tacked him, his habit of exercise was much interrupted;
he scorned to practise a careful regimen and treated
his growing bulk as nothing but a jest. His lecturing,
his preaching, his *' Fishmonger days " in London —
in none of which he would abate a jot of his old energy
— undoubtedly cost him perilous exertion; but for
sixty years he had had too much bodily health to
believe that it could seriously fail him. The master-
ship of his college brought its full measure of work,
and more, in the immense re-invigoration of the
university after the war. Moreover his turn for the
Vice-Chancellorship would come before long; and
even this prospect did not deter him from accepting
the office of " Renter Warden " of the Fishmongers*
Company in 1924, entailing yet higher and more
onerous dignity to follow. It was impossible for him
to economise his force, so great was his pleasure in
lavishing it. His last two years of life were perhaps
his happiest; his position pleased him, he loved the
daylong rush of work and sociability in which he
lived, and there was never the smallest cloud of the
old depression upon his mind.

The first sign of returning hope had been to find
that he could write. He began to amuse himself by
translating epigrams from the Greek Anthology, and

298

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1923

he published his versions in 1923 under the name of
The Reed of Ptjtt. And then, as with the release
of a long-pent stream, book after book poured from
him, f\ir outstripping any possible rate of publication.
Two volumes of reminiscence came first, The Trefoil^
and Memories and Friends^ each the work of a very few
weeks; and after these he turned to fiction again, and
wrote (still in 1923) Chris Gascoyne and The House of
Menerdue — the latter inspired by a visit he paid that
summer to the haunts or his youth in Cornwall. In
1924 he was still writing novels {The Canon has been
published since his death). Finally, in 1925, he began
a book which ever since his recovery he had promised
himself to write, a Memoir of his mother; he finished
it at Cambridge in the summer term. Since the
beginning of his career he had published about fifty
books, and I cannot say how many more he had
written. This was the last; and he laid it, after an
interval of a quarter of a century, beside the book in
which he had first shown his full measure as a writer
of prose, the Life of his father.

''Magdalene, April 2^, 1923. — I enter my sixty-second
year in good spirits, not remorseful, interested in life and
work. Thank God! I had a pile of letters, mostly
from kind but relentless women. ... At ii.o Peel
came, and we walked round, looking at small details —
the old pleasure returns. At i.o College Lunch:
many small points. Walked with F.R.S., who was
enchantingly nice — his very best. . . . Wrote. Hall,
very friendly. Committee about Reading Room, Ram-
sey, Peel, Morshead, in my study. ... I offered
^^1,500; this is a small thank-offering to my dear and
kind colleagues. I drew up a report."

" April 26. — Wrote about Rupert Brooke. Dined
in Trinity with Lapsley. He ushered me in as the
cook brings in the Boar's Head at [Queen's], Oxford —
* caput apri defero ' ; very warm greetings from Bevan,
Innes, McTaggart, etc., which warmed my heart. . . .

299

1923] THE DIARY OF

To Lapsley's great panelled rooms (Henry Jackson's),
very bare and noble. A conceited American boy, and
the charming de Navarro, son of Mary Anderson, quite
delightful.

" I was grateful to Lapsley for restoring me to the
world. I didn't like the clothless tables, but the dinner
was good and the welcome adorable."

''May 13. — Awoke cheerful; breakfast with Sarum.*
... It was strange to be sitting again with him,
after all our years of companionship, and to find him so
much the same. ... At 10.45 ^ ^^^^ ^^"^ ^" Con-
vocation robes to the Library. We went into chapel,
leaving him in the Library. I gave the boys a sketch
of his career. Then he came in with verger, stood
by my stall, and I admitted him by formula. It was
nice to do this to an old friend. Then service, and the
boys sang finely. He preached an admirable short
sermon. ..."

''May 14. — I think St. Clair is a very fine, simple-
minded, robust, sensible prelate, and the little veil,
pulled down by his long absence in Australia, has flown
up again. We seemed like two Eton boys again. He
walked in the garden with me, and went off at 11 .0,
after a wholly joyful visit.

" I had many letters, but callers flowed in. Addis
to lunch, a fresh and lively youth. Walked alone;
met the dull smiling inattentive Larmor; called on
Winstanley; saw but could not catch E. M. Forster,
the novelist; met Winstanley again and went to the
bowling-green — what a sweet place, but for tea-swilling
dons. Then to Library Subsyndicate at Emmanuel.
Crawley, a very nice boy, at dinner — and Mallory, who
came back to talk. . . . He is absorbed in the
League of Nations, and believes too much in his power
of inspiring second-rate people by somewhat incoherent
thought. But he is a bright and gallant figure, and has
much personality.

* Dr. St. Clair Donaldson, Bishop of Salisbury and Hon. Fellow of Magdalene.
300

A. L 15l.\su.\
'923

[To face p. 300

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1923

" I slept very ill, ami 1 am full of bodily disablements,
but filled with levity and interest. I bless God hourly
for my release."

** May 21. — I strolled out, doddered about, watched
the crowd of trippers everywhere trailing wearily
round, was pleased and amused by everything. Called
on Winstanley in New Court and interrupted him with
discursive talk; I couldn't hold my tongue; he came out
with me to see me safely off the premises. We excused
ourselves by pleading fictitious appointments; and
sneaking back again — I couldn't go home, feeling too
idle — I met him sallying out again. So we walked to
the roundabout, which was looking beautiful, with sad
dons and girls at tea. The fountain quite superb, the
water tinkling: Laurence hobbling hurriedly in the
offing. I went back, and began an idle book of letters,
displacing St. Mark. ..."

" June 5. — Went off to town and to Fishmongers'
Hall: came in at a Holt Finance Committee, and was
made very welcome. . . . Brand more youthful than
ever: Eccles, the Headmaster, very portly and resonant.
I conducted much of the business. Then came lunch,
and a lot of old Fishmonger friends turned up. I was
really moved almost to tears by their delightful greet-
ings— felt I had been really missed. . . . Lord
Hollenden came and made me a most gracious speech —
and so it went on. Then whom should I find next
me but the Bishop of Norwich — and he looks younger.
We had much talk, and I got my own way all along.
... A memorable day."

" Magdalene, Oct. 14. — I went off to the [University]
Sermon; my last attendance was in 1883, when Papa
preached. We met in the Senate House, and my
brother Heads were very gracious; St. John's made
tender inquiries — he is a funny sight, with his
sanguine laughter-loving face and his white thatch of
hair. . . .

30t

1923] THE DIARY OF

" We sloped off, a poor congregation. Mason* began
weakly, but there was a fine apostrophe to the Church,
in the style of Newman — ' Wherefore, my mother, do
they prepare for thee a bill of divorcement, that thou
art not worthy to be the Bride of Christ? ' I looked
round. A.'s head was embedded in his chest; B. asleep
with a look of uplifted piety, C.'s skull-like head dangling
on his thin neck, one of the Bedells asleep, his head
pillowed on the other's shoulder. I was aroused by a
sharp sound to my left : D., rigid with sleep, snored and
struggled. E. below, with gleaming eyes, making
mental notes. A disgraceful scene of infinite futility
and grotesqueness. We scuffled away. . . .

" Aunt Nora came to tea and I had a long quiet
talk with her, much about psychical things. . . .
She looked very frail and wise, unhampered by the
flesh. . . .

" I forgot to say that chapel [Magdalene] was abso-
lutely full from end to end, all the stalls and many extra
chairs. The music was good, but without courage.
I was very much pleased by this, and it was a really
inspiring sight. I preached on friendliness — was
decidedly affected myself, and they listened most
silently. My voice improved as I went on, and I had no
nervousness to speak of."

''February 2, 1924 — I walked about town, to the
Fitzwilliam, Christ's Piece, back by Jesus: very heavy
and extremely lame. Then wrote letters with disgust,
and went to dine at Trinity. . . .

" I saw a plain pale little man by the Master, whose
face seemed familiar — a lifted eyebrow, a little smile, a
perky curl of the lip. I said to Parry, * Can that be the
ex-Prime Minister? * ' Yes,' said Parry, * it is Baldwin;
I found him strolling about and asked him to dinner.
He is struggling with a hideous task, his list of honours.'
Then came grace, very sweetly sung; the Master had
said the initial grace in tones like a cataract of tin pots
and crockery. Then Parry suddenly said, * Let us

* Canon A, J. Mason, of Canterbury.
302

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1924

change places.' So I was moved up next the Master,
and Baldwin took my hand in a firm grip: ' I have long
wished to meet you, as Phil's friend,' . . . Then he
said, in reply to some question of mine, ' Yes, I hope
I shall get back to ordinary life again. I used to like
reading; but this infernal task of mine — fourteen hours
a day seeing people and having to be at your best and
guarding every word — is a fearful strain.' I said some-
thing about ' semina flammae,' and he said, * Yes, every
smallest word is liable to burst into flame.' . . . He
struck me as a very good-natured, sensible, able, tired
man, but with plenty of stuff left in him, entirely
unembittered and healthily detached. . . .

" It is so surprising to me to find myself in this situa-
tion of respect. I seem to myself so obscure and
secluded; and then suddenly I find myself in touch and
on easy terms with these big men. It is an experience
that continually takes me by surprise. I feel radically
obscure, in spite of my bedizened exterior."

''February 21. — Rylands to dine. A very quiet
friendly evening. I was perhaps a little blurred.
He was angelic and full of cheerful details. He can't,
however, like my company as much as he seems to.
Perhaps he is deferential.? I felt both ugly and elephan-
tine, with a great desire to applaud his grace, comeliness
and sweet temper. . . . Anyhow it was a very delight-
ful evening. He went at 12.0, leaping into the night.
I went to bed, having caught, I think, a fresh cold, and
with furious bouts of coughing, awaited the throned
dawn of the Pepys dinner.* When I think of the
agonies of terror and miser)^ I suffered over this two
years ago, and the horrors of 1921 and 1922, it is
amazing. ..."

" February 22. — . . . We dressed, and resplendent
in red gowns and orders went off, Gosse saying that he
felt very ill and miserable. Our company assembled:
Lord Exeter, very nimble and kindly, a simple man:

• The annual dinner at Magdalene on the birthday of Samuel Pepys.

1924] THE DIARY OF

Lord Braybrooke, as kind and unreachable as ever:
W. Bridgeman, very stout and lethargic and pale-eyed,
full of friendliness: Owen Hugh-Smith, in chain
and jewel of Fishmongers . . . and various other
notabilities, all known to me.

" I led off with Gosse and we took our places. The
hall looked very well, rich but homely. We fell to
work: Alington next me, very amusing and volatile. . . .
Food and wine good and well served: no hitch: beha-
viour of our undergraduates pleasantly commented on.
I said grace, gave ' The King,' and then called on Gosse.
He spoke clearly and loudly, with easy flow of words
and good gestures : said too much about me, as a wonder-
ful person, to be guarded from overwork by gossamer
nets. Then an interesting bit of literary talk about the
rise of self-expression, and the friendship of Evelyn and
Pepys — no sign of their knowing each that the other
was a diarist. He spoke twenty-three minutes. Then
an interval for coffee. Then I rose and felt very much
at home; Gosse had started them laughing, and I had
a lot of almost new and quite funny stories, at which
they laughed heartily and hilariously. Then Alington
went on, a clever and amusing but disconnected
speech. . . .

" I stayed talking in the Library till 12.0. The
worst of having made an amusing speech with stories
is that the dull men of the company come to one in
order to tell one much better stories. ... I got away
at midnight: sate reading till 1.30, and had a night
much broken by agonising fits of coughing, but
thankful for a really successful gathering."

** March 10. — G. Rylands arrived, looking very
young, blooming and serene in spite of his efforts.
He is acting the Duchess in the Duchess of Malfi, We
were gay at lunch, but I was rather dazed by the long
morning. Then R. and I went off by taxi to Milton:
a cold day, with some snow still lying, but a lovely sun,
and the fields about Horningsea and the clear river
very beautiful : saw many gulls, hawk, wild-duck, etc.

304

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1924

. . . We talked of innumerable things, and came
down to Clayhithe. . . . We drove back and he came
to tea, but was tired and silent, liking to be with me,
not wanting to go and act. But he went ofF. I wrote
a little.

'* Winstanley and Ogilv)' to dinner, the latter hand-
some, but positive and rather bored. Winstanley
sparkled. To the A.D.C., where I never feel at ease.
The play began with faint and sad music by Ferrabosco,
very sweet and pathetic. W. said it was the sort of
music he would like before his lectures — resignation to
a bad job.

" The play was, I thought, detestable. It was well
staged, the actors well drilled. But the dresses were
fantastic, and there was an air of pedantry — and still
worse, a sense of deep unreality. A play where again
and again in a tragic moment a man finds time and
heart to spout similes and platitudes! Soon the
Duchess appeared, very pale, moving with dignity —
but I didn't like the painted eyes and the very stiff
carriage of the head. Yet when the Duchess was there,
there was always a sense of reality. The young husband
Antonio was a handsome boy, and the Cardinal was
natural; but the lunatic scene was grotesque — and then
the murders began. To see Rylands strangled on the
stage and put kicking and mewing in a great black
coffin was grotesque. Then Wormald, very limp and
faint, was strangled, expostulating, and the audience
laughed. Then four people were stabbed. The whole
thing was sickening, and not redeemed by any art or
beauty — the very motive of all this crime obscure. I
could hardly believe that this sad stately woman was the
young man who had been walking with me in the fields
all the afternoon. I got tired and even bored when the
Duchess was dead. Ogilvy excused h'mself, and I
came back out of tune with everything. But it was a
delightful day."

" May 14. — I bicycled alone to Haslingfield and
Harlton, and enjoyed it greatly. Then with V. Jones

1924] THE DIARY OF

to King's, to dine. This was delightful. We were
received with great kindness. . . . Walter Durnford
came to entertain us. We walked in — it was so
strange to be there again — and I felt how the romance
of my life is centred at King's. Every one was pleasant
— Clapham, Wedd, Sheppard, etc. . . . Then we
went to Combination Room. Dickinson came to sit
next me and we gossiped away. Afterwards Mann
came up, half laughing, half crying, took my arm and
walked to the gate. He said, ' It was so nice to see you
here. I look up the table and I see Walter Durnford
sitting there, and I say to myself ' There is a great
gentleman ' — we are all of us well enough in our way,
but we are not that — and then I see you beside him and
my heart is full.'

" What ^ fool one is! I had thought I was regarded
with hostility at King's, and instead I am the welcome
guest. I abandoned myself to pleasant reveries."

" May 21. — Nicholson came all the morning — but at
ten to i.o he suddenly said, 'It is finished.' The
portrait was thus done in three days, after four previous
attempts. I asked him what the difficulty was and he said
he did not know. He showed it me. It is a small picture
(N. said * This is miniature painting.') I am sitting in
silk gown in a red armchair. I am a stout bilious man,
with a heavy jowl and red-rimmed eyes — with the look
as if I held a potato in my mouth : rather fine hands, with
pointed fingers (my own being spatulate). It is
beautifully painted, but all the coarse and bored elements
have come to the surface. That is what happens when
one sits.* . . ."

" May 22. — G.R. at 2.30, very youthful and gay.
He professes to be alarmed by Tripos. We ran into
floods between Fen Stanton and St. Ives and he was
childishly excited; but we put out the magneto and
had to get out while it was mended. Went and in-
spected the floods, the result of a ' cloud-burst ' on

* The portrait is now in the Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge.
306

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1924

upper ground. Then on to Hemingford Grey: to the
church, saw the Gunning grave, the river by the church-
yard wall running brown and hoarse. Then through
Dendy Sadler's garden, now all grown up: on to Heming-
ford Abbots, and back by road. My dear boy was
quite delightful, full of affection, argument, petulance,
reason, fine feeling and whimsicality. I spoke to him
with much freedom about many things. But I feel that
he is drifting away. He will go to town and get inter-
ested in other people, perhaps second-rate people. And
our understanding will all fade away. But I Jiope
it may be otherwise. It is strange to care for any
one so much and yet to accept these possibilities
with equanimity. I suppose one learns to expect
less."

''June 9. — My foot very bad. I got up, however, in
good time and limped about. At 12.30 I went to the
college photograph, and this I really enjoyed. The
boys looked and were so friendly and fresh and gay.
I had many scraps of talk with them, and sate finally
enthroned between Hunter and Holt. . . . Then
drove alone by Wimpole — the avenue very grand — and
up the North Road, where by the station I found a little
tree-surrounded site, which I once thought of buying,
for sale. Indulged in pleasant reveries.

" Came back and went to Emmanuel, having been
summoned for a meeting, but found the house full of
bright cohorts of ladies ascending and descending.
Asked an austere maid where the meeting was. ' There
is no meeting that I know of.' Where was the Master.?
He was out — Mrs. Giles was giving a party. I was
very lame, but contrived to get a taxi. Wrote a
little at the letter I intend to send round to the
undergraduates. . . .

" Desmond MacCarthy came in, and I had nearly
three hours of really interesting and flexible talk, an
actual interchange and comparison of thought. He has
a well-stored and sympathetic mind, and (what is more
important in talk) does not store up his leavings, but

1924] THE DIARY OF

gaily follows any attractive by-path. How rarely one
gets talk like that here — or indeed anywhere."

*' Lamb House, Rye, June 26. — Another very hot
golden day: letters leisurely: then to Appledore. By
Kenardington to Warehorne: a fine church with a great
eighteenth century red-brick tower full of white snap-
dragons: high pews, royal arms, no Anglo-Catholic
nonsense. Barham of the Ingoldsby Legends was
vicar here. To Ruckinge, a beautiful old church with
huge Norman tower on the edge of the marsh. . . .
Then down to the marsh. The same odd depression
of the fens overtakes me there. Newchurch, a big Tudor
place, leaning tower, restored out of all interest — to
Ivychurch, a very grand orange-lichened place: no
village, about a hundred parishioners. To Brookland
with its odd black pagoda, and so home. The sight of
the marsh dotted with white sheep as far as eye could see
was very rich. A great sea-fog with wind-tost crest over
the sea, rather sinister; and as I sit writing I hear the
Dungeness fog-horn blowing. They are sheep-shearing
everywhere, a pleasant sight. These beautiful remote
villages are very attractive. My foot is very tender, and
it is as much as I can do to potter into a church. But
I'm well and cheerful and enjoy solitude."

** J^h 1' — To the literary Society. . . . John
Bailey very nice: I clasped arms with Newbolt. A small
gathering, and the two chairs to my right empty. During
soup a tall figure glided behind me and Arthur Balfour
sate down. He is lovely to look at: looks about 60,
curly, silken, white hair, but so easy and lithe: a little
deaf, but full of the old charm. We talked of many
things, politicians, books, people. . . . He took down
some names of books and said engagingly, ' I can't bear
books that haven't a happy ending.' I don't think his
talk was brilliant, but it was charming and very modest.
He didn't recognise me at first, but soon picked it up.
He has a pleasant deference and attentiveness — a really
aristocratic manner, no claims, no assertiveness. He

308

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1924

looked very fresh, ate and drank little. . . . Then
suddenly his vis-a-viSy Bailey, Rennell Rodd, etc., closed
in on him like a pack of hungry dogs. . , .

" I fled at 9.50: much bored in train: bed at 2.0."

** Magdalene^ October 25. — At 7.0 dined with O.F.M.
here, and off to Corn Exchange — full from end to end.
Seats found near platform. Very orderly. The proces-
sion appeared: Frank smiling, shaking hands, quite a
little candidate. Keynes (pale as marble) began, an
excellent dry speech, not very effective. Then Frank,
a good sensible speech, neither petty nor cheap, indicating
liberal principles. . . . Then Cope Morgan, a loud
fighting speech; really 1 almost expected to see tonsils
and lungs blown from his mouth by his yells; it was too
long, and he lost hold, but he had a big reception. Then
Mrs. Salter, a charming fluted little speech. . . .

*' The whole thing filled me with horror. The
audience could not understand the simplest point and
laughed only at the vulgarest jokes. The idea of being
governed by such a democracy is outrageous. I agreed
with Coventry Patmore that the Anglo-Saxon in intelli-
gence is only just above the negro. They were orderly
and good-humoured, but it was a low affair — the asper-
sions on fellow candidates sickening. The room was
hideous, and the constant singing of * For he's a jolly,
etc.,' was loathsome. I trust I shall never attend a
political meeting again. The low mental quality was
heart-rending."

'-''Lamb House^ Rye^ December 31. — We drove out
in a cold wind, with flying rain-storms, to Tenter-
den. Walked, I very slowly, by footpath to Small
Hythe. Ellen Terry's cottage is lovely. A great glow-
ing sunset came out, over the flooded valley. In two or
three places we drove through water. On the great wet
level at Wittersham the waves were running quite high
and breaking on the shore. . . .

*' So ends a very happy and busy year. I have had a
good many ailments, mostly gouty and caused by my

309

1924] THE DIARY OF

weight (now 19 stone), but none of them in the least
disabling to the mind. I don't think I have had a single
hour of depression. I have been very happy about the
college, my colleagues jnost friendly and conciliatory, the
undergraduates extremely delightful and good. I have
carried out some pleasant plans — have built parlour,
bedmakers' and gyps' common-rooms, reading-rooms,
panelled chapel-entry, two fives'-courts, all out of

Madame de 's money. She and Edward de

have been constantly and deeply affectionate and sympa-
thetic, and my happiness has much depended upon them.
Fred has been a great stand-by. My friendship with R.
has rather evaporated owing to his inability to write
letters, which freezes me. My breeze with P. blown
over. I have published several books and written two
complete novels. I have enjoyed the Fishmongers' work.
My friendship with Gosse has revived. I have made
many speeches and entertained endless undergraduates.
Lamb House has been an unspeakably delightful
haven of refuge. I take leave of 1924 grato animo."

^' Magdalene^ Januaryl^^ \^1^. — Called at 6.45, an hour
which has no existence for me; dressed in the dark and
breakfasted 7.30. Started at 8.0, a misty morning, very
little to see anywhere, no colour — a few strings of horses
by Newmarket — but the great heaths, the pleasant halls
and homesteads and the grey flint churches all gave the
comfortable Norfolk atmosphere. . . . We got to
Norwich and the Cathedral about 10.45. -^ "^^^ ^^
Dean, Willink, a handsome bustling man, who gave me
an excellent scat just facing the Queen, who had a great
chair and faldstool, with a chair on either hand, close to
the altar-rails. The organ played a grand hilarious
Handel piece; then the Corporation with maces came
in, and the choir, very picturesque, boys in cassocks and
ruffs*. . . .

" The organ began again, and the procession entered
from the south door. . . . The Bishop as cool as ever,

* The service was for the dedication of the ancient episcopal throne of Norwich,
newly restored.

310

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1925

with the Queen, who had an odd crimson plush hat,
of her special shape, and a fur coat; a graceful young
man and girl with her. . . . Then the Bishop, a
short, dignified, rather beautiful but cold sermon, not
well read. Then he went behind the altar and dedicated
the throne, which is very high, under the eastern arch —
rather papal and a little theatrical. A collection for
St. Paul's (;fioo).

Then the Bishop took the Queen down the nave, to
show herself; and I, under instructions, went out of the
north transept door, where I found a photographer.
The Queen, the Bishop, and quite a bevy of pretty
nymphs came out. The Bishop seated the Queen, and
himself, arranged the nymphs, and added me to the
group.

" Then we all stalked in. I found the nymphs in
the small upper drawing-room, on the third floor; and
while I talked the Queen came in, in a brown mole-
coloured dress, not very becoming, extended her hand
to me and began to talk about the weather and the cere-
mony. Then we trooped downstairs to the dining-room,
and the Queen made a little gesture with a finger indicat-
ing to me the chair next her. It was quite a small party,
and very youthful. . . . The Bishop roped me in,
and I talked to the Queen most of the time. . . . Shy
she was, at first, but not in the least dull — very well
informed about current topics and people and historical
people, easily amused, and the somewhat severe lines of
her face melting into great geniality. The Bishop of
course is the most entirely tranquil and collected person
on such occasions and put her at her ease. I liked her
voice, and her quick direct replies. . . .

*' When we rose to go the Bishop marshalled the party.
Two of the charming houris were giggling together.
He said sternly, ' Come and be useful — you were not
asked here to amuse yourselves.' Finally I was sent in
to the big drawing-room with two girls, ' to make a noise
of talk at all events.' The room gradually filled with
Corporation people and clergy, a civic reunion. They
were led up to the Queen one by one, making all sorts of

311

1925] THE DIARY OF

grotesque contortions. ... A foolish woman said to
me, * How gracious she is — every inch a queen.' Now
that was exactly what she was not. She had no majesty
of mien, or ease or stateliness. She looked a hard-worked
and rather tired woman, plainly dressed, doing her best
to be civil to nervous people. It made me feel a sort of
affectionate admiration. She was hustled off to speak
to some nurses.

*' The party drifted off, and then the Bishop carried
me off to a little sitting-room, high up, where we talked.
. . . He saw me off at the door with cordial and grate-
ful words. We drove off through light mist and
retraced our journey, getting in soon after 6.0. A most
interesting day: which has reversed all my preconceived
ideas about the Queen. I should like to meet her
again, and I feel a curious kind of personal regard for her,
and a warmth about the heart."

" March 9. — Frank and Mrs. Salter arrived with
Lord Oxford, very bluff and rosy, with a nice blunt
friendly manner. We chattered about Oxford and
Cambridge respectively. Then Margot, who did not
recognise me, nor realise who I was, till I reminded her of
Piz Languard. She is very witch-like, long face, long
nose, wdth a hat with odd black puffs. Dinner in Com-
bination Room, much champagne. . . . Then I was
called to change places with Owen, who was next Margot.
She had remembered, and we talked about our symptoms,
with many nudges and hand-pattings from her. She
certainly has a real charm, and I felt her, under all her
trappings, to be genuinely affectionate. She had a
little olive-wood cigarette-box, the counterpart of the one
she gave me.

" We drove to the Guildhall, and after a pause
marched on to the platform: a pattern of faces like
shagreen, . . . Asquith was ill dressed, long neat hair,
pleased, I thought, at being an Earl. They went, and
the crowd closed in, so I couldn't follow. Margot
came up, clasped my hand and said, * Good-night, old
jriendr , . .

312

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1925

" What strikes me about It all is the pitiable claim
advanced by each speaker that the Liberals were the only
serious rational inaugurators of progress and that all
else are thieves and robbers. Do they really believe
this stuff, especially when the countr)' evidently
doesn't want them? It is the low mentality and the
coarseness of emotion of a public meeting that sickens
me. I feel degraded by being one of such a
rabble."

''March 16. — Hunting went off at lo.o, and I
followed at ii.o. A good many undergraduates going
down. A man travelled in my carriage like a very sleek
little pig, all his features melted into an adipose paste.
To Fishmongers' Hall and found a lecture on Oysters
proceeding. . . . Then went with the Clerk to St.
Magnus : found a man trying the organ which is splendid,
and the church apt for rolling melody. . . . Then we
went on to Billingsgate — strange passages to right
opening on wharfs, and to a half-demolished house which
I took to be Todgers's (Martin Chuzzlewit). The
stench of Billingsgate, which was deserted and being
swabbed out, was appalling — concentrated centuries of
bitter briny fishiness. The market is from 4.30 a.m.
to 9.0. We keep an inspector and office here, and I
saw the ' condemned ' barge, officered by a merry
pigeon-fancier, in which the condemned and refuse fish
is taken away in iron tanks to be made into poultry food
at Wapping. But the smell in the whole place made
me feel almost faint, and remained with me all day. We
then went and inspected Knill's Wharf, under the Hall:
the great granite catacombs very fine, and the dark
up-towering bridge, and the swirl of the flood-water
round the prows of moored barges. . . .

" Went to Cannon Street, found Noel Blakiston; we
travelled in a Pullman and had tea. A quiet evening.
I found him as delightful as ever. ... I only
hope he won't knock his head against my critical
sympathies. He looked after me on the journey most
filially."

1925] THE DIARY OF

" Lamb House^ Rye, March 21. — Rose early; and Noel
departed, taking much sunshine with 'him. Curzon's
death announced — but there is something hollow about
his career. His seclusion (never dined out), his pom-
posity, his awful industry: it gives me a feeling like
Gray's Elegy — the boast of heraldry, etc.: something
deeply futile about it. Curious that he seems to have
had so very few friends of his own order; they were all
professional men. He was always friendly to me. . . .
All the tributes to him are respectful apologies for not
liking him better. . . .

" Hugh Clutton-Brock came. I settled him in
the garden-room, advised a stroll, worked till dinner.
I find my Memoir pours out. This is mamma's
birthday."

" Magdalene, April 20. — A letter from Madame
to say that she and E. had made over another

[gift] to me. ... I can carry out all my schemes
without anxiety. It is like a romance: and it fills my
mind with affection for the dear donor, who has brought
so much sunlight about my path of late and asks so
little. Though I have not seen her, I feel about her
as I did for mamma and Beth — an unsuspicious love.
It is wonderful. ..."

** Magdalene, April 24. — My sixty-third birthday.
I awoke after half-sad dreams. I looked out over a
hedge and saw mamma in a grey dress m.aking her way
resolutely up the road ; went to meet her and was greeted
by an embrace. Then Maggie came, pale and silent,
but smiling; then Beth, who declared herself with a
great smile to be perfectly happy. All this moved me
much, but I did not think of them as dead, till I awoke,
and soon after slept again. It was a curious birthday.
I had hardly any letters, except one or two anonymous
ones. I wrote fiercely. M. (with an ironical smile),
G. (very breezy), and D. (gentle and mild) to lunch,
and we had a most pleasant party. Then I went to the
Senate House and saw some of our men take degrees —

314

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON [1925

always an interesting sight. Then the Press Syndicate,
dull and lengthy, till 6.30: Sorley in the chair. Then
more letters, and a pleasant little party in Hall, to which
I sent some Beaufort champagne, and my health was
drunk. Both Morshead and Salter sent me books, and
a mass of flowers came. Not a bad birthday — about
ten hours' work."

** June 3. — College photograph. I liked my hand-
some friendly well-mannered young men very much,
and felt proud of them. Lunched with Clutton-Brock
and met J. F. Holland: such an easy reasonable talk
about many things.

" Then out with Manning. . . . We found a chalk-
pit above Harlton (I have been there with Marcus
Dimsdale) with a little wood above it, and winding paths
and tiny glades — such a little paradise. We wound
through it and came out on the wold — the air full of
golden sunlight, and a honied breeze, with scents of
clover and beans; afar lay Cambridge, very hazy, with
smoke going up; down below little quaint house-roofs
and orchard-closes, full of buttercup and hemlock. A
sweet hour. . . . "

This was his last sight of the country that he knew
so well. On the following day, Thursday, June 4,
he was in LxDndon, returning to Magdalene in the
evening. Next morning, feeling ill, he sent for his
doctor, who found him to be suffering fromi pleurisy.
His condition caused no alarm for several days, but
on June 10 there came a sudden change for the worse.
He had got up and was sitting in his study when he
was seized by a severe heart-attack, prolonged for
several hours. It was judged unsafe to move him
from his armchair till the second day, but meanwhile
he had been able to see one of his colleagues and to
give some directions. On the I2th he was conveyed
back to bed; but pneumonia soon developed, and it
became known that he was very dangerously ill. He
died at midnight on Tuesday, June 16. Three days

315

1925] ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

later the funeral service was held in the college chapel,
and he was followed by many friends to his grave in
St. Giles's cemetery.

Magdalene will always remember him as one of
the most devoted and generous of her benefactors,
and all Cambridge will long miss the presence of so
welcome and so rewarding a companion. His friends,
far and wide, mourn the loss of a man who loved life,
and who with unquenchable spirit enriched it for them
all. The last word may be allowed to those who
learned to know him when they were boys in his
charge at school — who knew him infinitely kind,
admirably wise, inspiringly great. On that word,
in unforgetting gratitude, we say good-bye to him.

THE END

316

INDEX

Abbotsford, 85-7

Ainger. A. C, 38, 44. 45. 49, 73,

76, 92, 182. 183, 195, 221, 287,

292
Albany, H.R.H. Duchess of, 37, 250
— , h;R.H. Duke of {see Saxe-

Gsburg, Duke of)
Alexander of Teck, Prince and

Princess, 250
Alington, C. A., 304
Anderson (Dorset), iil
Arnold, Thomas, 121
— , Miss, 122
Asquith, Rt.-Hon. H. H. (see

Oxford and Asquith, Earl of)
Austen-Leigh, Augustus, Provost

of King's, 106

Bailey, John, 308

Baldwin, Rt.-Hon. Stanley, 302, 303

Balfour, Rt.-Hon. A. J., 308, 309

Ball, Sidney, 269

Baring, Hon. Maurice, 191

Barnes, E. \V., Bishop of Birming-
ham, 108, 127, 148, 163

Bateman, Sir A., 114

Bateson, William, 224

Beck, A. E.. 127

Beerbohm, Max, 261

Bennett, Arnold, 225

Benson. Arthur Christopher :

character, 1 1-26 ; early
years, 28-30 ; assistant
ma-ster at Eton, 30 ; house
master, 32 ; leaves Eton,
69 ; settles at Cambridge,
73 ; Fellow of Magdalene,
75 ; President, 229, 244 ;
blaster, 279, 282, 283 ; Last
illness and death, 315

— , Edward Frederick, 28, 168, 297,
310

— , Edward WTiite, Archbishop of
Canterburs-, 28, 34, 35, 58,
78. 79

Benson, Margaret, 28, 156, 2G5

279. 314
— , Martin, 28
— , Mar\- Eleanor, 28
— . Mrs.', 28, 34, 44, 297, 299, 314
— , Robert Hugh, 28, 104, 117,
152, 181, 257, 266, 279, 2S2
Bentinck, Count William, 250
" Beth " {see Cooper, Ehzabeth)
Bigge, Sir A., 42
Binyon, Laurence, 261
Blaice, William, 140
Blakiston, Noel, 313, 314
Bowlby, H. T., 209
Brantwood, 177, 178
Braybrooke, Lord, 279, 283, 304
Bridgeman, Rt.-Hon. W. C, 304
Bridges, Robert, ig8
Broadway, 77, 270
Bronte, Emily, 275
Brooke, Rupert, 148, 194, 239.

275. 299
Browne, Miss, 39, 40
Browning, Oscar, 1 19-21, 149
— , Robert, 53, 151
Br>ce, Viscount, 284, 285, 290
Burne- Jones, Sir Philip, 251, 289
Burrows, W. O., Archdeacon t>f

Birmingham, iCi
Butler, H. M., Master of Trinity,
107, 108, 148. 161, 231, 232.
290
— , Samuel, 267
Buxton, Cliirence, 267
Byron, portrait of, 160, 163

Cadogan, Hon. A. 71
— , Hon. E., 35
Cambridge, 55, 62, 73, 104
Cambridge, H.R.H. Duke of, 53,

158
Campbell, R. J., 204
Cantcrbun, Arclibishop of {see

Davidson, Randall)
Carev, F. C. S., 158

317

INDEX

Carlyle, Thomas, 219, 220

— , Mrs., 220

Carter, F. E., Co-Dean of Boclcing,

39, 232, 233
— , T. B., 150
Castle Rising, 171
Chamberlain, Rt.-Hon. J., 52
Champneys, Basil, 164, 249, 269
Cheltenham, 80
Childers. H. R. E., 81, 138
City Temple, The. 204
Clark, J. W., 109, 126, 148
Clutton-Brock, Hugh, 314, 315
Cockerell, S. C, 215
Cole, A. C. 158

Connaught. H.R.H. Duke of, 42
Cooper, Ehzabeth ("Beth"), 117,

118, 152, 175, 206, 207, 314
Corelli, Marie, 182
Corfe Castle, no
Cornish, F. W. Warre, Vice- Provost
of Eton, 49, 91, 104, III,
244, 285-8
— , Mi-s. Warre, 197, 244, 286-8
Cory, WiUiam [sec Johnson,

William)
Cox, Harold, 237
Cox, Mrs., 45
Cunningham, W., Archdeacon of

Ely, 108, 163, 214

Darwin, Sir F., 223, 232

— , Lady, 148

Davidson, Randall, Archbishop of

Canterbury', 38, 164, 269
Dewar, Sir James, 289
Dickinson, G. Lowes, 306
Dimsdale, Marcus, 208, 315
Dobson, Austin, 164
Dolmetsch, A., 251
Donaldson, St. Clair, Bishop of

Salisbury, 41, 300
— , Stuart A., Master of Magdalene,

38, 74, 77, 84, 103, 106, 161,

214, 245, 279
Dorchester, no
Dreams, 57, 70, 89, 127, 142, 169,

211, 284, 314
'■ Duchess of Malfi, The," 305
Dunskey, 38, 39, 40, 41, 50
Durnford, Sir Walter, Provost of
King's, 163, 226, 287, 306

ECCI.EFECHAN, 220

Eccles, J. R., 301

Edinburgh, Bishop of (5f^ Walpolc,

G. H. S.)
Esher, Viscount, 68, 69
Eton, 58, 59, loi, 102, 137, 138,

142, 285-8

" Eumenides, The," 148, 194
Exeter, Marquis of, 303

Fairford, 165, 166, 206

Fawkes, Admiral Sir W. H., 254

Fishmongers, Company of, 189, 298.

301, 313
FitzGerald, Edward, 74, 112
Foakes- Jackson, F. J., 108, 127,

163, 232
Ford, Lionel, Dean of York, 56,

149, 150
Forster, E. M., 300
Fortescue, Lady, 250
Fox Howe, 121, 122

Gaselee, Stephen, 190, 199, 223,
253, 260, 282

Giles, Mrs., 233

Glaisher, J. W. L., 239

Gloucester, 78, 79

Goodhart, A. M., 76

Gosse, Sir Edmund, 32, 93-5, 114,
129, 138, 175, 176, 183, 191, 222,
229, 232, 242, 243, 303, 304

Gray, Thomas, 161

Grenfell, Julian, 74

Haldane, Viscount, 138, 235, 236
Harcourt, Sir William, 37
Hardy, Thomas, 81, 82, 254, 259,

260, 281
Harrison, Miss Jane, 208
Henley, W. E., 47
Henselt, 92
Hewlett, Maurice, 261
Hinton Hall (Isle of Ely), 132, 141
Holland, H. Scott, 231, 232
— , R. Martin, 217
HoUenden, Lord, 301
Holt (Gresham's School), 189, 218.

252, 253
Home, Sylvester, 266
Horner, Edward, 74, 92, 112, 146,

147
Howson, G. W. S., 252
Hugh-Smith, Owen, 158, 304
Hunting, Jesse, 160, 190, 200, 294

Inge, W. R., Dean of St. Paul's,
196, 248, 261, 267

Jackson, Henry, 108, 290
James, Henry, 46-8, 81, 82, 183,
225, 226, 273, 280, 281, 297
— , Montague Rhodes, Provost of
King's, afterwards of Eton,
96, 97, 103, 107, 116, 126,
129, 130. 158. 193, 233,
253, 2S3

318

INDEX

Jebb, Sir R. C, 12S, 120
Johnson, William (Cor}), 27, 35,

41, 59, 61, 123
Jones, H. Festing, 223
— , S. Vernon, 190, 26S, 305

Kkable, R., 223

Keats. John, 143, 144, an

Kclmscott, 165-8

Kcmpe, C. E., 70, 8S, 124, 166, 253

Kcr, W. P., 288, 289

Keynes, J. M., 309

Kipling, Rudyard, 84

Lamb House, Rye, 46, 297, 298

Lancing, 209

Lapsley, G. T., 108, 109, 127, 151,

152/153. 163, 207. 299
Laurence, R. V., 108, log, 127, 163,

214, 301
Leslie, Shane, 272
Lincoln, 29, 88
Literary Societ>', The, 162, 163, 164,

249, 270, 308
Lloyd, C. H.. 92, 95
Lubbock, Percy, 94, 138. 139, 140,

144, 143. 155. 164, 168. 193, 198

199, 216, 217, 218, 225, 258, 275
— , Roy, 199
Ludlow 182
Luxmoore, H. E., 152
Lyttelton, Hon. C. F., 158, 159
— , Hon. Edward, 31, 108, 113,

114, 288
— , Hon. G. W., 142
— , Hon. G. W. Spencer. 198, 221,

222, 262, 263
— , Hon. Sir Nevile, 1 58

MacCarthy, Desmond, 267, 307,

308
Macnaghten, Hugh. 287
Madan, Geoffrey, 268, 269, 270,

271, 284, 290'
Magdalene, 74, 75, 103
Maitland, A. Fuller, 212
Mallor>', George H. L., 126, 127, 135,

148, 171-3, 187, 194, 300
Mann, A. H., 306
Manning, Cardinal, 272, 273
Marshall, Mrs. Stephen, 121, 210, 211
Martindale, C. C, 282
Man-, H.M., Queen. 311, 312
Mason, A. J., Master of Pembroke,

39, 160, i6i, 232, 233, 302
Melrose, 85

Morley, Viscount, 147, 176
Morris, G. G.. 224
— . William. 96, 130, 131, 138, 167,
168, 197, 204. 211, 225

Morshead, O. F., 299, 309, 315
Murray, Charles Fairfax, 96, 97

N.\ WORTH Castlk, 221

Xewbolt, Sir Henry, 225, 249. 308

Newman, Cardinal, 82, 237

Newsom, Professor, 223

Newton, Professor Alfred. 140, 156,

174
Nicholson, W., 292. 306
Norwich, Bishop of {see Pollock,

Bertram)
Norwich, Catliedral, 194, 195, 310,

311
Nuttall, Professor, 190

Oliphant, Mrs., 47

Oxford and Asquith, Earl of, 53,

312
, Countess of, 312

Parratt, Sir Walter. 42, 53
Parry, Sir Hubert, 52
— , R. St. J., 302
Pater, Walter, 94, 103, 117, 118
Peel, T., 190, 266, 299
Peskett, A. G., 190. 229, 283
Petrarch, 223

Pollock, Bertram, Bishop of Nor-
wich, 195, 196, 301, 310-12
Ponsonby, Lady, 37
Prothero, Sir G. W., 249

QuiLLER-CoucH, Sir Arthur, 241,
262

Raleigh, Sir Walter. 208, 261

Ramsey, A. S., 190, 283, 299

Rawlins, F. H., 69, 72

Rendall, M. J., 194

Repton, 149, 150, 163

Richmond, O. L., 193, 216, 259

Rodd, Sir Rennell. 309

Rossetti, D. G., 62, 65, 67, 86, 96

Rossini, 53

Ruskin, John, 177, 178, 256

Ru.ssell, Hon. Bertrand, 234

Rvdal Mount, 122

Rye, 46

Rylands, George, 303, 304, 305, 306

Ryle, Edward, 72, 89

— , Herbert, Bishop of Winchester,
afterwards Dean of West-
minster, 52, 89, 112, 250

Salisbury, Bishop of {see Donald-
son, St. Clair)

Salter, F. R., 190, 194, 199, 206, 207.
249. 253, 266, 283, 299, 309. 312.
315

319

INDEX

Sargent. John S., 254
Saxe-Coburg, H.R.H. Duke of,

37. 121
Schiller, F. C. S., 269
Scholfield, A. F., 148
Scotsbrig, 220
Scott, Sir Walter, 65, 85-7
Sedgwick, Adam, 127, 128
Severn, Arthui, 177
— , Mrs. Arthur, 177
Sherborne, 242
Shipley, Sir A. E., Master of Christ's

113, 148, 158, 268
Sidgwick, Henry, 236
— , Mrs. Henr\-, 217, 302
Skclwithfold (Ambleside), 121, 210
Smith, R. J., 275
Somervell, Arthur, 158
Squire, J. C, 136
Stanford, Sir Charles, 53, 163,

164
Stephen, Sir Herbert, 205
— , J. K., 205
— , James, 261
— , Leslie, 197
— , Miss, 249
Strachey, Lytton, 234
Strutt, Hon. Robin, 148, 256
Sturgis, Howard O., 38, 44, 45, 82,

1-14. 145. 157. 183, 276
Sutherland, Duke and Duchess of,

92
Swinburne, A. C, 64-8

Tabley, Lord de, 68

Tait, Miss Lucy, 297

Tanner, J. R., 224. 334

Tan-yr-allt, 38, 44

Tatham. H. F. W., 31, 38, 59, 72,

no, 165
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 130, 211,

243
Thomson, Sir J. J., Master of

Trinity, 233
Todd, H. Ross, 155, 179, 296

Tremans, 43
Trevelyan, George, 270

Velasquez, 141
Verrall, A. W., 236, 240
Victoria, H.M. Queen, 33, 41, 42, 43

, correspondence of, 69, 73, 74,

103, 133. 138, 147. 156, 176

WaGGETT, p. X., 190, 191, Iy2
223, 268

Vv'agner, Professor A., 254
Walpole, G. H. S., Bishop of Edin-
burgh, 232, 233
— , Hugh, 113, 199, 215, 226
— , Sir Spencer, 164
Warre, Edmund, 33, 35, 36, 50, 51,

59, 60, 65, 75, 82, 83, 139, 140
Watts-Dunton, Theodore, 63-8
Wellington College, 28
Wells, 203

Wells, H. G., 243, 244
Westminster Abbey, 175, 250
Westminster, Dean of {see Kyle,

Herbert)
Whitefield's Tabernacle, 267
\Mlkinson, G. H., Bishop of Truro,

afterwards of St. Andrew's, 115,

116, 160, 161
Willink, J. W., Dean of Norwich,

310
Wimborne, no, in
Winchester, Bishop of [see Ryle,

Herbert)
Windsor Castle, 76, 138
Winstanley, D. A., 224, 233, 300,

301, 305
Winterbotham, Geoffrey, 199, 200,

206, 207, 218, 219, 222
Wordsworth, Wilham, 86, 121, 122,

123
Wright, W. Aldis, 107, 108

Yeats, W. !'., 92, 261
York, Cathedral, 41, 87, 88

320

PR Benson, Arthur Christopher

^099 Diary

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